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

[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.