A War Without End - "Cry Havoc and let slip
the dogs of war."
- At Hastings, 1066
Scene I: in the English Camp - Hastings, England - October 14, 1066
I am cold, exhausted, and feeling weak. Word reached us about a fortnight
ago. The French devil's men had landed, not far from this spot, and
are hell-bent on taking His Majesty's kingdom for his own.
I myself have tried to fight as valiantly as I could. I am His Majesty's
Earl of Wessex, Arthur Stephen Lancaster, and I have pledged him my sword,
and, my life. Several dozens of good men I brought with me from Wessex have
already paid the price, in fending off the armies of Harald Hardrada those
few weeks ago, in the north. And now we are faced with this peril.
I know I am not alone when I express my doubts and concerns. We are
unlikely able to match them in strength of numbers, and their cavalry is said
to be one of the finest ever assembled. Rumours and whispered conversation
resounds around our camp. Some talk of desertion and surrender to William
the Bastard's forces, but upon hearing such words, I strike them down and
attempt to bolster their weary hearts. I must find the strength in
myself and through my peers to wage war, and fight for my God, my King, and
my Country. At any cost.
I try and keep warm by the fire, when I am informed of the battle plan.
His Majesty will divide us into three wedges, on Senlac Ridge, giving
us an overlooking position.
I nod my head at the man who has informed me thus, and put my sword aside
for the time being to try and have a little meat and ale before the likely
start of the bloodshed.
I have seen too much blood spilled in my lifetime, already. I am only
twenty-five years old, and I am far from home, and have been for the last
several weeks. But this is my duty. And this perhaps is my destiny,
to either participate in the salvation of England, or its conquering.
My mind is too full, too mired with thoughts of what might come.
I chew on the mutton that was prepared over the fire, and drink from a filthy
goblet what ale I could stomach. I must have steady nerves, and ale
will certainly assist me in that aim.
I gaze upon the camp and see masses of men, some in chain mail, some in
rags, others with spears, some with swords and axes, but all have shields.
And that is said to be our strength. The shield wall, where we
all hold our shields up and pray to the Lord that nothing can get through.
But if they somehow manage, I know we are done for.
I turn my attention back to my charred meat and eat whatever I can off the
bone, tossing it aside when I am finished. I gaze around me one last
time, and think of these men and what is at stake. Not just for the
nation, but for them. Many of them are not warriors. Many were
peasants, trained quickly, if at all, and taken from their wives, their children,
their land, and brought here, to die. Their lives are in our hands.
We only have our swords, and God, to rely upon now.
Suddenly there is a chatter going about camp. People are rising from
where they sit and taking their arms. The time is upon us.
It is time to cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.
I take my sword and kneel, resting my head upon the hilt, and pray silently.
Salve, crux, victoria et spes nostra;
Salve, crux, defensio et vita nostra.
Salve, crux, redemptio et liberatio nostra.
Salve, crux, signum salutis, atque inexpugnabilis murus
contra omnem virtutem inimici.
I stand, and cross myself, and take my sword, my helm, and my shield. I
close my eyes and inhale deeply, gritting my teeth.
To war then.
To war.
Scene II: in the French Camp - Hastings,
England - October 14, 1066
War is upon us now.
I am Edouard James Lancastre, a vassal of His Grace William, Duke of Normandy,
and I know my charge in life at this very moment.
The English forces of King Harold II stand before us, in their shield wall
formation. Our task has been to destroy it, and it has been unsuccessful
thus far. We have vaulted forward, time after time, against this formation,
to no success, whatsoever.
Rumour now spreads that William has been killed. I have seen the carnage
already. I have slain a number of English who have come my way, but
to my left I see the English slaughtering scores of my countrymen.
Perhaps all is lost. They continue to advance, and there is no sign
of the Duke, anywhere. The English seem to be every where.
My comrades in arms retreat. I have no choice but to do the same.
My God - what have we done. We have left our homes and people to invade
this squalid cursed land. And for what. To be murdered by the
hundred? And if we got to the coast, could we all even get home? We
burned a great number of our ships, as a symbolic hope of what was to come.
But what was to come is now present happenings. We had so much hope
and confidence coming into this battle, that England would be ours, especially
after hearing reports of Harold's battles in the North just not long ago.
Now we are mired in the quagmire that is England. Curse it all.
My concern is to survive. To hell with England.
They are pursuing us with ruthless abandon yet. My horse has been wounded
by an English arrow and it's stride has been limited. I might as well
lay down my arms and turn and face the entire English army by myself by my
hand. It would be glorious chaos.
The chaos that we are facing now is not glorious however. At all.
A voice cries out just behind me. I turn and my eyes widen and my heart
sings for joy, and hope. It is William.
"Look at me, I'm alive and with the aid of God I will gain the victory!"
Every man of us all of a sudden, it would seem, freeze in our tracks, halt
our retreat, and turn to face the enemy. I dismount from my steed and
raise my sword in the air, and point it towards the English, and cry:
"POUR DIEU ET LE PAYS."
We raise our voices and charge forward, into the fray.
To war then.
To war.
Scene III: end of
war - with the victorious Norman French - Hastings, England - October 14,
1066
It is over.
We are victorious.
I ride upon a horse next to the Duke of Normandy and survey the casualties.
Very few English were captured, but those that were, we have kept with
us.
Bodies are strewn about the field, men from both sides. I see so many
men I knew and once called friend, dead. The scavengers above call
out their desire to feast on the destruction wrought by man below.
We come across one man. He is a knight, obviously, and has been severely
wounded. His belly looks to be full of his final breaths.
"Monsieur Capitain," I call out to one of the English archer captains.
"Who is this man here."
The man looks up at me with contempt, yet a passive ease seems to be glazed
in his face as well. He has accepted that his land is now ours, and
that history has taken a different course.
The captain looks down. "It is Lord Arthur Stephen
Lancaster, His Majesty's Earl of Wessex."
The Duke of Normandy sees the chain of nobility hanging around his neck,
bloodied, worn. He instructs the captain to take it from off the neck
of the English nobleman and hand it to him.
I stare into the man's eyes yet as William turns his head to me.
"Edouard."
"Your Grace."
"I now pronounce thee, Edouard James Lancastre, Duke
- of Wessex."
William hands me the chain of nobility which once hung around the Englishman's
neck. I turn my attention back to him as I don the chain and take the
title which was once his. He closes his eyes, forever.
I ride on with William, who is certain to be crowned King of England. War
has served his purpose, and it has served its purpose for me, as well.
And I decide, that if I am to stay here and begin a new life in this foreign
land, then I must begin a new in every way.
I now renounce my French titles and I adapt a new name and a new surname,
which shall be respected and uttered amongst the ranks of the glorious soldiers
of Christendom, and shall be passed on generation to generation, century
to century, from now, until the dawn of the Apocalypse.
Edward James...Lancaster.
