The Gold of Byzantium: Revised, Rewritten and Re-Edited

[King Henry V]

I have recently rediscovered a bit of inspiration, but after deciding there were too many wholes in the story I am starting a new, altered version. I'm still in the process of writing the first part so it might be a few days before I post it. If you wish so (and if you can find it ), Monk, you can close the first version, although this will be in no means a double post.

[King Henry V]

Here is the first part. It does have a bit of an abrupt ending, but I have to catch a plane in a bit.
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The Chronicles of Aethelham

The Gold of Byzantium

There was nothing that Edward of Aethelham liked more than killing Normans. As a pious Christian, this struck him as a strange though. He had been fighting them ever since he had learned how to use a sword and had come to know their ways and fighting intimately. Every time he slew a Norman he felt the distinct sensation of vengeance: vengeance for his fellow Englishmen, vengeance for his fellow thegns, vengeance for his father and vengeance for himself. His whole life had been insurmountably changed by the events of a single day in October in the year of Our Lord Our Lord, One Thousand Six-and-Sixty when the destiny of England had been decided as the Normans triumphed over the Saxon forces. Edward smiled ruefully. Yet he had also fought for them. Fought for the Normans during their power struggles, when it should have been a time to rise up and throw off the invader’s yoke. And why? To save his lands. Lands his father and grandfather before him had fought so hard to keep. Lands that Edward had lost, stripped from him by the new king of England and Duke of Normandy, Henry Plantagenet. In Edward he found a ripe target to punish for his opposition to Henry’s claims to the throne. A year ago Edward left England for Constantinople, the fabled capital of the Roman Empire of the East to fight, like many of his exiled countrymen, to fight in the Greek Emperor’s Varangian Guard, where Athelbald, a kinsman of his, had a post. Now he was outside the besieged city of Brindisi, lying in wait for another breed of Normans, those who had managed to wrestle the Italian possessions of the Empire free from its grasp. Now, in the year of Our Lord Eleven Five and Fifty, Emperor Manuel Comnenus, in accordance with a baronial uprising, sent the Imperial army to take back the lands lost all those years ago.
“They’re taking their bloody time!” muttered a man lying next to him. He was Eadric, a stocky Englishman who had been Edward’s companion in arms fro many years. “I’m dying from this infernal heat!”
Edward glanced at him. Beads of seat were trickling down from Eadric’s red hair. That colour made Edward suspect that he had a touch of the Dane in him, yet like any true Saxon he denied it profusely when Edward raised the subject.
“As long as they don’t foul up it doesn’t matter,” Edward replied.
His mission was to find and kill a small group of Norman knights who had been causing havoc to the Imperial army’s supply lines coming from Bari. To accomplish this he had been given command of twenty-eight shaky and inexperienced Macedonian skutatoi and another fifteen native Italian lightly armed crossbowmen who seemed happy enough to fight for their old masters and nine fellow Varangians. Had it not been for the latter by his side he would have been quite worried. He had despatched four Varangians on horseback to lure the Normans into his trap. They were supposed to bring them over the crest of the hill where Edward was lying, and into the waiting spears of the skutatoi. The crossbowmen were supposed to unleash a deadly volley of bolts to punch through the heavy armour of knight and horse. The unhorsed knight s could easily be finished with the Varangians’ two-handed battle-axes. That at least was the plan.

[Ludens]

Interesting opening, King Henry V. Do continu, I am eager to learn more.

[King Henry V]

Here's part two. Bit of a cliffhanger at the end, but it's late and I've got school in the morning....
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Edward could see a cloud of dust cresting a hill in the distance.
“Here they come!” Edward called.
Eadric grunted and they began to crawl stealthily back down the hill. Out of sight, they got back up and walked to the skutatoi lying in the long, dry grass. Commanding them was a swarthy young officer called John Branas, who also acted as Edward’s translator. Although as a boy he had learned, as long with Norman French and Latin, Classical Greek, Edward could not comprehend much of the Byzantine dialect. He strode over to Branas, who was sitting on the ground slowly sharpening his sword with a whetstone. Seeing his commadnigng officer approach him, he quicly pocketed the whetstone and stood up. Edward was taller than most of his fellow Englishmen and so almost dwarfed Branas and many other Greeks.
“The Normans will arrive any minute now. As long as your men hold firm and the crossbowmen fire at my command, victory shall be ours,” he told Branas who relayed the orders to his men.
Edward flashed a smile of encouragement at the soldiers: they needed it. Peasant conscripts from Macedonia who much preferred to stay home and look after their famrs than to die for the glory of the Empire. Edward could hardly blame them.
He walked over to the rear, where a half-blind Norse Varangian called Erik the One-Eyed was holding his chestnut stallion, Hengist, named after one of the Saxon leaders who had first brought his people to the former Roman province of Britannia. From his saddle was hung his round lime-wood shield emblazoned with the dragon of Wessex, his battle-axe and his sword, Foe-Slayer. Though the four-foot long shaft was recently made, the blade itself was over a century old, used by his forefathers in their struggle against the Dane who had brought death and destruction to England. However, near the tip of the shaft was embedded a small piece of iron. That was a fragment of a sword, the sword used by the first Aethelham, shield bearer to the Great King Alfred at the battle of Edington. He slung the shield over his back, tied the sword belt round his waist and grasped the great axe with both hands and took his place by his men’s side. He could hear the rumble of hooves approaching.
“Ready!”
The skutatoi lowered their spears and closed shields. The crossbowmen readied their bows.
Suddenly the mounted Varangians appeared over the crest of the hill and quickly veered their horses to either side of the lethal hedge of spears. When the Normans in their heavy chain mail followed, caught in the heat of the chase, they were not so nimble. Their heavy chargers, the furious speed of the gallop increased by the incline of the hill, could not be controlled in time.
“Loose!” Edward cried.
The crossbowmen let off a deadly volley of bolts. With a great cry half a dozen horses and men crashed to the ground, some wounded; most dead. Yet the worst was soon to follow. With a thunderous sound, the knights crashed into the skutatoi, their horses shrieking in pain as they were impaled on the waiting spears. However, things were not so good for the spearmen either. The tremendous force of the charge had severely damaged the formation, which was buckling under the pressure of the knights. There was no time to lose.
With a great cry, Edward and his Varangians charged forward with their axes into the knights. He swung his axe into the shield of an unhorsed knight, smashing the shield and throwing him off his balance. Yanking his axe out, he took a horizontal strike at the knight’s waist. The axe cut through the flesh like a knife through butter and the Norman collapsed to the ground, dying. Edward pulled out the axe out again, just in time when another knight charged at him. He side stepped a downward blow of his foe’s sword and took a step back again when the knight lunged at him. However, Edward soon took to the offensive. With a snarl he stepped forward and made a great swing of his axe, forcing the Norman to retreat. Unfortunately for him, he stumbled over a corpse and fell backwards. Before he could thrust his sword up, Edward brought down his axe and split the Norman’s head open, spraying blood onto Edward boots. Edward took a moment’s pause to look at what was going on around him. He could see that the skutatoi had bent their flanks forward, almost surrounding the Norman knights. However, the skutatoi were stretched very thinly, and it looked as though the knights would burst through the formation. If that happened all would be lost. However, a good deal of the knights were already dead and it looked as though some were edging away from the fighting, preparing to make their escape.
Edward’s attention was swiftly brought back to the fight at hand. From the corner of his eye he could see the glint of steel in the sun. He instinctively ducked. And just in time. The sword slashed through the air, hit the top of Edward’s helmet and knocked it off. Before turning round, Edward swung his axe, hoping to catch is foe right on the chest. Instead he saw that the Norman was still mounted, and completely missed any part of his body. On the knight’s shield was painted the royal arms of the house of De Hauteville, a black eagle on a white background. From his fine armour and equipment Edward could tell he was the leader of the Normans. The knight brought his sword back up again and sliced it down towards Edward’s bare head. Edward tried to deflect the blow with his axe. However, the Norman had the advantage of height and Edward’s axe was heavy and difficult to bring up so quickly. Instead the axe caught the sword on its blade and they scraped of each other. Yet the blade was only slightly deflected and instead landed on Edward’s right shoulder, cutting through the flesh until the bone. Pain shot right through Edward’s arm and shoulder. In a moment his right arm, his sword arm, was useless. The knight brought his sword back up, preparing to make the lethal blow. And Edward was practically helpless…..

[King Henry V]

Here's some more I typed today. Enjoy!


It was then that time slowed down. His enemy’s sword seemed to take an agonizingly long amount of time, as did Edward’s own reactions. He tried to bring his axe up again, but with his sword-arm effectively paralysed the attempt was feeble. He prepared to meet his fate. Edward saw the expression of triumph on the knight’s face. And then, in barely a moment, it changed to that of agony, his back arching in pain. A patch of cloth behind the chain mail was stained with blood. The pain, coursing through his body, took all the momentum of his sword lunge and he collapsed forward, toppling from his saddle. He wriggled on the ground for a few moments until the life left his body. The Norman was dead.
The rest of the knights, seeing their leader slain, lost their spirit and quickly made their escape from the fight. However, some were not fast enough, and the crossbowmen let off another volley of bolts, felling yet more knights from their horses. Only half a dozen Normans crested the hill and escaped from the carnage.
Edward fell to his knees and breathed a deep sigh of relied. He could not belief his luck. A second later and the knight would have plunged his sword into Edward’s chest and he would be dead.
“What, no thank you?” said a voice.
Edward turned. It was Eadric. In his hand he held a spear, it’s tip dripping with blood. On his face was a large grin.
“I saw that you needed some help, so I guess I just saved your life,” he continued.
Edward laughed nervously
“Thank you. I owe you one there.”
“A cask of your best mead and we’ll call it quits,” Eadric said. He missed the feasts and banquets of England, were warriors would gather in their halls around a fire, eating roasted joints of meat, drinking barrels of ale and mead, singing songs and telling stories of warriors, battles, beasts and bravery.
“Are you alright?” Eadric said, gesturing to my wound.
“No, it’s just a scratch” Edward replied, rising to his feet again.
Branas came over, his sword and clothes bloodied.
“Sir, the enemy has been beaten,” he said eagerly.
“Thank you, I can see that”, I answered. “What’s the butcher’s bill?”
“Eight of our men dead and eleven wounded, sir.”
“Any Varangians?” I enquired.
“Yes, I am afraid so. Erik the One-Eyed was killed. I’m afraid it wasn’t pretty.”
Edward was saddened by the last piece of news. Though he had not known him long, he had found Erik to be a capable soldier and a likeable man.
“Very well. We shall bury our men and then march back to camp. Thank the men for me, Branas, they have fought well this day.”
“Yes, sir, they have,” Branas said and walked away.
Edward turned to Eadric. “By God, I that was close run thing. I was afraid that the spearmen would break any minute. Then we would all be slain. Once again, I thank you, friend.”
“Well at least there are thirty less of those Norman bastards.”
Edward smiled. “All in a day’s fighting.”
Eadric wiped the sweat from his beard. Unlike Edward, whose fair hair, which was trimmed short and was clean-shaven like the Normans, Eadric grew his hair down to his shoulders and had a beard. He looked at the setting sun in the sky; it was late afternoon. After burying the Roman dead and stripping the Norman corpses of their armour, weapons and anything valuable, they marched away from that place of death, leaving the remaining corpses to rot in the Italian sun.

[Greek Phalanx]

well man I must say that u got talent... really.