Warrior Monk: A Young Saxon, Torn Between His Duty to God and His Hatred for Normans

By David T. Peckham

Warrior Monk is the story of Ayden, a young Saxon who is torn between his duty to God and his burning hatred for Normans, whom he goes out of his way to kill. Norman soldiers kill his family in a drunken ramapge on his home. He leaves his betrothed to travel to Jerusalem to fight with the Templars. Unbeknown to him, his betrothed follows him to the Holy Land where they establish a life together, working with homeless children and orphans, a work eventually supported by the King and Queen of Jerusalem.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456744878

David T. Peckham

I was born and raised in Hastings, England and relocated to the USA in 1963. Since that time I have been engaged in Christian work in England, the Faroe Islands, and the USA. I was educated at Moorlands Bible College in England. After thirty years in the insurance business I retired and wrote my first book in 2004. My writings include two historical novels and six Christian works. I have three grown children and currently live with my wife in the State of Washington. For the past twelve years I have produced a weekly internet devotional called Thoughts From The Word (TFTW) that is received in twenty-one countries. The TFTWs and inforrnation on my books can be found on my website at onhisshoulders.com. or received weekly by request at [e-mail]

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© 2011 David T. Peckham. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/16/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4487-8 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4486-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4485-4 (dj)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011903844

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them. 

Contents

PROLOGUE

Book One

1108 A.D. Senlac, England

1121, Senlac, England

1121, Senlac, England

1121, Senlac Abbey, England

1121 AD, Senlac Abbey

Summer, 1122 AD, Senlach Abbey

Autumn, 1123 AD, France

November, 1124 AD, Marseille

Book Two

October, 1123 A.D. Senlac, England

July 1124 A.D. France

September 1124 A.D. Europe

1124 A.D. France

1124 A.D. Milano, Italy

December 1124 A.D. Italy

Book Three

Ayden

Tola

Tola

Ayden

Tola

Ayden

Tola and Ayden

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

A hatred for Normans runs in my family, although it is like some diseases, it skips a generation. I inherited this hatred through my great uncle Cedric who is well known throughout the south of England for his exploits against the Norman invaders. He never joined an army but had his own agenda and never deviated from it. During his younger years he killed many Norman soldiers, often laying in wait for them to ride through the woods between the village of Senlac and Hastings. One by one his tally grew until William, the new Norman King, beheaded twenty-one innocent local villagers in retribution for the twenty-one, his count, of the soldiers I had killed.

He was imprisoned in the castle’s dungeon and scheduled to hang on the end of a Norman rope and, only by his cunning and quick action was he able to escape the punishment. He was known throughout the south of England as the Shepherd Warrior. *

One reason for his bitter hatred was the kidnapping of Anna, his older sister. Since the death of their mother at his birth, she had raised Cedric, and generally cared for their father and his two brothers, Reginald and Derek. Derek was killed in what has become known as the Battle of Hastings, in the year of our Lord 1066.

They operated one of the largest sheep farms south of London, just outside of the village of Senlac through which ran the major highway from London to Hastings, the largest fishing Port on the south coast. Soldiers and merchants alike used Senlac was the final stop before riding the seven miles into Hastings where William the Bastard had constructed a castle and camp, housing in excess of seven thousand men and three thousand horses.

The story of my uncle’s infiltration into the camp as he sought to find Anna, his sister, is one I have listened to repeatedly at my uncle’s feet ever since before I could walk. The chords of treachery and deceit he wove around their necks were the work of a master weaver, with the end result the equivalent of a multi-faceted quilt, perfectly woven and stitched.

Several times he nearly lost his life, but he never gave up searching for his sister. The most amazing part of his story is that his sister is now my Grandma who is married to a Norman. My mother is also Norman although I have never considered her so. I was eight years old before it suddenly dawned on me that both my Granddad and my mother were Norman, At first I dismissed the thought, and concluded there was a reason for this that I was too young to understand. These two people own the love of my heart. I love them dearly and respect them to the fullest. As my love for them grows, so does my hatred for the Norman armies that killed England’s King Harold and usurped his throne. I would fight them to the death and willingly die, as long as I took at least one Norman with me.

My mother and father were faithful church-goers and have dragged me along to Sunday services ever since I was born. Father Gregoire is a Norman, yet they sit and listen to him preach Sunday after Sunday in a foreign language. In a strange way, as I got older, I developed an interest in God, an interest my father told me was a contradiction of my hatred for Normans. God is love, yet you hate the very ones He loves, he often told me. I spent many an evening in my bedroom without supper because I said something hateful about Normans. Do you hate your mother? he often repeated. Do not forget she is Norman.

I have never considered my mother Norman, and would defend that opinion to the death. The two things did not correlate in my mind, my loving Mother a Norman, and a love for God and a hatred for Normans tied up in the same mind—mine.

As a child I was very independent and chose to play by myself and get into trouble by myself. I made my uncle’s home my favorite place. I would often sit on the branches of the same tree from which he watched the battle between William and King Harold. From that special perch I observed the various birds, especially the Skylarks. They climbed to such a height they became invisible, then plunged earthward, singing as they dove.

I also inherited my love for dogs and horses from Uncle Cedric. My dogs were constant companions, and I spent hours talking to them about any and every thing that troubled me.

I didn’t mean to cause trouble, but, as a child, I frequently found my father’s belt being applied to my bare bottom. Now that I am older, I look back over the events of my life, amazed that I am still alive to remember them.

Our neighbors were the Olivers—Mr. and Mrs. Oliver and their only child, a girl named Tola. Since before I can remember, Tola and I have been friends. We played well together, but not every day. Both Tola and I enjoyed the time we spent alone, as well as when we played. As the years came and went, our friendship deepened into a relationship that encompassed more than simple friendship. Instead of wrestling in the hay, we found ourselves sitting in my hideout, holding hands. This was different from grabbing each other in an attempt to pin the opponent to the ground. One day we kissed—it seemed the thing to do—we had both seen our parents do it. It felt good and stirred up strange feelings within both of us.

This is our story.

� The Shepherd Warrior, a novel written by David T. Peckham and published by Author House, is the story of Cedric Hampton, a young Saxon’s ongoing battle with the mighty Norman army that had destroyed his peace-loving family who operated a sheep ranch in the south of England.

Book One

Chapter One

1108 A.D. Senlac, England

I cowered like an ensnared rabbit in the rotting trunk of a large oak felled by the cutting edge of a lightning strike. If my pursuer came within ten feet of me I knew I would be discovered, so loud was the uncontrollable clicking of my teeth. I had been caught scrumping a couple of his apples, but there was no justification for the farmer to chase me as if I were a criminal. He was old and fat, and at five years of age I could out run him. I heard him coming and he stopped to wipe his forehead. He breathed very heavily and made strange wheezing sounds each time he breathed inwards. I could easily have reached from my hiding place and touch his muddy boot. I cannot remember his exact words, but I know they weren’t very nice. I braced myself in fear as he lowered his large sweaty frame onto the fallen trunk, expecting his weight to crush me in the process. After what seemed like half a day he groaned and swore as he lifted himself from the precarious perch and made his way back to the scene of my crime. I ran home to my Grandma and Granddad’s place minus my hard earned apples, and was greatly relieved to run into the open arms of my Grandma. I am very close to Grandma Anna and Granddad Walter and spend equally as much time with them as in my own home. Grandma is a great cook and always seems to have my favorite biscuits or cake readily available. Granddad and I spend a lot of time just sitting in the garden as he tells me of the days when he met my Grandma and why he fell in love with her.

Little Fire, my son, what mischief have you been into this time?

Grandma always called me her son. Her beautiful wrinkled face smiled—no one had a smile like her. Her snow white hair was pulled back into a bun, and her apron had fresh dough on it which told me she must have biscuits cooking in the oven. What have you been up to?

This was a rhetorical question as she really did not expect an answer. She held me close and ran her fingers through my hair. After a short time she patted me on my bottom and pointed me toward the door.

1120 A.D. Senlac, England

The booming bell stopped its incessant ringing. It was so quiet one could almost hear a spider scurrying across the wooden floor of the church. The time had come for the weekly mass to begin. It was an important component of my family’s ritual of which I was usually a reluctant part. I cannot remember the first time I attended mass. I was christened Ayden Walter Corbon at the Church of St. Mary when I was eight days old and had attended every Sunday since, at least when I was in town. I was confirmed at age eleven after which I was permitted to participate in Holy Communion. I am now seventeen years of age and am still reluctant to attend mass with my parents.

The door creaked and our priest, Father Gregoire, sauntered casually to the altar. I always thought he looked as if he would rather be lounging on the sandy beach at Winchelsea. With his back to the congregation he intoned, In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.

After all these years I could repeat most of the mass verbatim, even though I did not understand what was said. In fact, I could replace Father Gregoire anytime and guarantee my rendition would keep the congregation from catching up on their sleep.

Deep down I was glad for my religion. I was not sure whether God consisted of three or four persons and, to be honest, I was not overly concerned about it. I was far from perfect and it was good to know I could get my sins forgiven when I confessed them to Father Gregoire. I have had seventeen birthdays and have never spoken to any priest face to face unless you count the occasions when I felt the need to confess my sins. I do not want to die carrying too many sins.

I used the time at mass to think about other things, especially how I could kill Normans without getting caught. My mother taught me that God disapproved of killing. I did not consider this a problem as I would always confess my sins to our priest after killing a Norman; after all, he was not allowed to tell anyone about it. I enjoyed the best of two worlds— I could kill a Norman, confess my sin, be forgiven and prepare to kill the next one. The only thing that concerned me was whether or not I could trust Father Gregoire. I think I can, for he is too timid to get on the wrong side of God.

I would like to know more about God. He intrigues me. I have concluded however, that I must become a priest to pursue this as they are the only ones allowed to study God. I have asked my parents but they know very little. They are the cause of my confusion. I learned from them that God is three in one and one in three. Now that is confusing. To add to the equation they pray to the Virgin Mary. They are unsure as to whether she is God also, but then it would be four in one and one in four. I personally do not believe that the Virgin is God for she is a female and no female could be a god. They also pray to various saints and angels. These things make my head spin. I much prefer to think about how I am going to kill my next Norman.

At last I heard the words Deo gratias, to which my mind was pre-tuned. Mass concluded and my family and I headed home where my mother prepared our traditional post mass dinner. She had a way of preparing a haunch of lamb unparalled by any other apart from my Grandma Anna. She roasted it the day before using a mixture of herbs and spices, a recipe she said had been passed down for many generations. It was my favorite meal of the week, roast lamb, rice, and homemade bread still warm from the oven. Oh, and the gravy, lots of gravy into which I dipped the bread. The dripping, made from the gravy and smeared on a piece of toasted bread, would serve as several meals throughout the week. My mouth waters in preparation of it.

Do you think killing Normans is a sin? My question took my parents by surprise. We had not finished our meal, but it was something that had played on my mind during mass.

What on earth made you think of that? my father asked. It is not the type of subject to be discussed at meal time.

I thought about it during mass this morning. My honesty received a disapproving glare from my father.

Neither is it the subject to think about during mass.

I am sorry, father. I cannot control what comes into my mind. I thought if it was a sin then I should confess it to Father Gregoire as soon as possible. I would not want to die and have to explain it to God.

Ayden, my mother interjected, do not speak of God in such a manner. Have we not taught you better than this?

My father wiped his mouth on the cuff of his Sunday shirt. This subject must not be discussed with anyone, especially Father Gregoire. Our lives would not be worth living should the Normans hear of it.

But father, priests are not allowed to speak of what they learn at confession. Can we not trust Father Gregoire?

We cannot take that chance. Our lives would be ruined if the news ever got out. We would probably all be thrown into the castle dungeons, if not executed. He stabbed another piece of lamb with his fork. I want to hear nothing more about this matter –ever, he emphasized, and pounded his fist on the table.

Yes, father. I apologize for mentioning it.

This was the last time we spoke of the event as a family, but it remained a constant issue in my mind.

Dusk was approaching fast when Deka, my three year old dog, and I walked down the hill from our home to my hideout. I call it my hideout even though everyone in my family, and many others, know where it is. This place, enclosed by a circle of large rocks, has been special in our family for three generations. The oak tree, whose thick roots expose themselves in the crevices of the rocks, still towers over my special place. It was from the branches of this tree that Uncle Cedric watched the battle between King Harold and William the Bastard, now king of England. It was here that he formulated his plans to infiltrate the Norman camp and find and rescue his sister, my Grandmother. His initials can still be seen carved in the trunk as well as several places on the branches where he used to sit. This place and the memories it holds inspires me. It is here I do my thinking. It is here I wrestle with the two opposing cravings in my heart. My long established yearning to kill Normans and the new, unexpected interest in God. Where did this come from? I cannot do both as they are completely opposed to one another. How can I kill and love at the same time? I must choose one way and forsake the other. Killing Normans is a part of me. I often relive the exploits of Uncle Cedric as he tracked down and killed Norman soldiers, particularly the one who kidnapped my Grandma. I think about it during the day and dream about it at night. No, I cannot give it up. It is impossible for me to cast it out of my mind. But then there is this God thing.

Try as I might I cannot dismiss the thoughts about the God of my parents. Look at me now, from my hideout I see the tree—who made it? I look up and see the clouds passing overhead—are they a part of a grand creation? If there is a creation there must be a Creator—right? The sparrows, skylarks, crows and seagulls, did they just happen or are they the design of an all powerful God? Look at Deka, what a good friend he is. He cannot talk like me, but has his way of speaking and letting me know what he wants. My horses, the sheep my brothers and I watch over, everything, the sky, the sea, the mountains, large things and small things, did God mastermind their creation? Even if there is a God, why am I all of a sudden interested in Him? It will be easier for me to cast Him out of my mind, which is one thing I can control. God may be the Almighty One but I am in control of my mind—or am I? I can see no reason for casting aside my hatred for Norman soldiers but will continue to accept God as I learn more about Him. This is what I will do. I have decided.

I felt good about my decision. The only light in the sky now is a full moon and hundreds of stars. They are beautiful. I draw much pleasure from the night sky. How many times have I laid on my back in my hideout and tried to count the stars? They calm my mind after a hectic day.

I went to bed satisfied. I had a problem and I solved it.

Senlac, England, 1121 A.D

I am eighteen years old and the firstborn of my parents. I have two brothers, Oswald, named after an Arab friend of my father, and Geoffrey, and one sister, the youngest, whose name is Kara. I am proud of my name as it means Little Fire due to the thick red hair that covered my head when I was born. This speaks well of my personality as there is a perpetual fire burning in my gut. The older I get the hotter the fire gets. The burning passion in my soul is to wreak havoc among the Norman army. I know my Grandfather Walter is Norman, but he is different and does not behave like one. Many Norman soldiers consider it a sport to kill defenseless Saxons and they are not held accountable to anyone. Great Uncle Cedric has spoken with me about this and recounted his own acts of revenge forty years ago while he was in his teenage years, and the violent response of King William. He killed twenty-one Normans in one day as they rode through the woods on their way to Hastings, and the King, as punishment, beheaded twenty-one innocent Saxon men right here in Senlac. I must find a way to kill Norman soldiers without the king being aware of it. Of course, Uncle Cedric strongly opposes my passion although it is his stories that fan the fire in my soul.

It is not worth it. Many innocent men will die because of your actions—perhaps even you. If there was a way, don’t you think Uncle Reginald and I would do it?

I knew he was very sincere and adamant with his point of view, but he is crippled and growing old and the fire that once burned within him is gradually going out. I call my great uncles uncle, for that is the way it is in my family. In fact, any man with whom my family are close friends I call uncle. There has to be a way and I will find it. I love and respect my uncle and am determined to make him proud of me. The flame that wanes within his gut now burns hot in mine. Cedric Hampton is a name well known from the royal chambers down to the stables. If the truth were known there are many Normans who even revere his courage.

My Grandfather, Walter, was a soldier in the Norman army when they first invaded England. He was a guard in the Norman camp when he met my Grandmother and, prior to that, was the personal guard to Sir Humphrey and Lady Margaret Beaufort. Sir Humphrey was a highly decorated officer in the Norman army and befriended my mother and welcomed her into his home—but that’s another story.

My parents followed in their footsteps except it is my mother who is Norman and my father Saxon—a marriage union that even today is not accepted in many circles, although, since William became King in England, more and more Saxon girls are marrying Norman men, especially soldiers.

You might say I am a crossbreed. A few narrow-minded idiots refuse to befriend me but, as a whole, those with whom I choose to be friends accept me for who I am and do not judge me because of my ancestry. Those close to my parents know them to be deeply in love and can be counted on to assist as much as possible any who need help. My father’s name is Frederick and he is not, nor ever has been, a fighter. I have always known my mother’s name to be Sunny; it was only two or three years ago that I learned it is really Sunniva. Sunny is a good name for her as she always has a beautiful smile for anyone she meets. She is very optimistic and believes every circumstance will have a happy ending. I love her dearly and remember sitting on her lap in front of the fire while she softly sang lullabies to me. My favorite snack was when she would dip bread and cheese into warm milk—I still like it although I have little time for such pleasantries.

It is my Uncle Cedric who is the fighter; in fact, his friends call him by his nickname— Warrior, Shepherd Warrior to be exact. Now, at the ripe old age of eighteen—I celebrated my birthday one week ago—I take after him more than I do my father. It is strange, for with my father’s docile personality and the gentleness of my mother I should have less of a tendency for the battlefield. My uncle lives with my Aunt Isabella less than half a mile from us. Our two families operate a large sheep farm owned by the king. My other Uncle, Reginald, now he really is a fighter. He would rather slice a Norman’s head off than cut wool off a sheep. He is seldom home as he, even at his age, travels throughout England and Wales participating in as many tournaments as time allows. His name is legendary and his feats are the common subject in taverns throughout the country. Derek, my other uncle died on the battlefield fighting in King Harold’s army as they sought to drive the Normans out of England. I understand that I inherited my red hair from him. I am very proud of him although, of course, I never had the chance to know him.

I spend many hours every day working with the sheep, but as I have told my parents numerous times, I was not born to be a shepherd. I am a fighter and every nerve in my body wants to follow in the footsteps of my uncles. Uncle Cedric did not follow the tournament circuit as does his brother, but if there was a tournament within fifty miles, he would be there. As good as Uncle Reginald is, he often had to bow to his younger brother’s dominance. Uncle Cedric is my hero. I respect and admire him and my goal in life is to continue his one man crusade against the Norman infidels whose very presence in England is fast destroying the Saxon way of life. I will repay them for turning a strong, able and talented warrior into a cripple who struggles to even sit a horse. I will find the cowardly dog that almost sliced his leg from his body. They may have stopped one of their greatest antagonists but they have not yet reckoned with his grandnephew; my heart pounds uncontrollably when I think about it. My blood may be half Norman but my heart is pure Saxon. Blood does not make a man who he is, but his heart does. No one loves his mother more than I and she is not like the scum who wield the razor-sharp, double-sided sword. Such a sword crippled my Uncle Cedric and sliced the head off his brother Derek. I wish I had known him. If he is looking down from the heavens I will make him proud of me. I will—you can count on it.

I was returning home from a night at my uncle’s home when my reflections were suddenly interrupted by the sound of yelling and screaming. Deka stopped in his tracks and began to growl as the ground started to vibrate beneath my feet. Before I could look up I was knocked headlong into a boggy marsh as at least a dozen seemingly out-of-control horses blasted by me. The force of the horse smashing into me dislodged a saddle bag that splashed into the water not six inches from my head. I easily recognized it as of Norman craftsmanship. I needed not for it to tell me the madmen that were now hurtling down the road toward my home were Normans. It took little assessment on my part to know that they were drunk out of their minds.

For the first few years after William was crowned King of England, skirmishes between bands of rogue Saxons and Norman patrols were common. But, over the past fifty years they have declined in number as the Saxon rebels have either been killed or have become too old and injured to fight. Such a person is my Uncle Cedric. I must admit that my Saxon blood, for that is the only kind I recognize, was at the point of boiling as I pulled myself out of the bog in time to see the rear ends of Norman horses disappear over the crest of the hill.

I panicked. Deka barked wildly and took off after the horses but upon my command stopped and returned to where I was crawling out of the bog. This road led only to my home where I knew both my parents would be working in the barn. My father, is a Ferrier by trade, and is known all over the south of England for his blacksmithing skills. If truth were told, he supported our family more from blacksmithing than horseshoeing. This afternoon, however, I know he had set aside to shoe old man Harold’s Great Horses. Uncle Harold, as he is affectionately called, obtained these horses from his Norman Trustee. To my knowledge they are the only ones of their kind in Sussex and probably Kent also. King William brought a few breeding pairs with him from Normandy in 1067. Uncle Harold uses them to plough his land and loves them as dearly as if they were his own children. He will have them shod by none other than my father.

I ran down the road as fast as my legs would carry me. It was less than a mile to my home and would take no time at all for the horsemen to get there. I had a clear view of my home from the crest of the hill and my breath left my body at what I saw. The horses were drinking from a barrel as if nothing untoward was happening and the men had circled my father and were pushing him from side to side knocking him off his feet with every shove. My mother was trying to push her way into the circle but was no match for the soldier’s strength.

I ran down the hill and could now hear the laughing and jeering of the soldiers. I could no longer restrain Deka and he ran barking into the melee. Kara, my little sister, was being held by a soldier, her arms and legs flailing in the attempt to free herself. My brothers were nowhere to be seen as it was their turn to be with the sheep and would not return to the house until sundown. I approached the barn careful not to be seen. I could do no good by rushing into the yard. I could hear the screams of my mother and sister as my father rapidly lost strength. Kara, bless her heart, must be so frightened. She is only twelve years old and seldom leaves her mothers’ side. No matter the outcome of this foray, she will be scarred for life.

I made my way unseen to the barn and climbed to the top of a stack of straw from where I could see my father lying in the center of the circle. One of the Normans held his head in his lap with a knife pressed to his throat. By now my mother’s screams had diminished into sorrowful pleadings. Her strength had gone. Deka had plunged his teeth into the leg of the brute that held Kara but now lay unconscious with blood oozing from his head.

One of the men carried Kara into the barn and I could hear her screams. Her yelling rejuvenated my mother and she twisted herself out of the grasp of her antagonist and ran inside the barn. The man ran after her. All I could hear were the screams and cries of those most dear to my heart. I watched as I saw the two men tearing the clothes off my mother and sister. Without giving it any thought I grabbed a pitchfork and drove it into the back of the soldier abusing Kara. He fell to the ground without even a groan. The other man was so absorbed in what he was doing that he knew nothing of my presence or of the sudden demise of his compatriot. I easily removed the pitchfork from the dead man’s back. My mother’s assailant must have seen me in the corner of his eye for he dropped my mother and promptly turned to face me. He quickly glanced at the dead soldier and fumbled for his dagger. To his horror it was not in its scabbard; it had fallen to the ground during the struggle. He looked me straight in the eye as if trying to decide if he had time to pick it up and use it before I plunged my pitchfork into his heart. The next few seconds passed very slowly but he foolishly dove to the ground and grabbed his dagger. I immediately lunged toward him. As he raised his head the prongs penetrated his throat. Blood spurted from his pierced jugular which he immediately grasped, choking as he did so. He tried to speak but the only noise that came from his throat sounded like the gurgling of the bog into which he had so recently knocked me.

I turned to see my mother holding Kara close to her breast. Their bodies shook uncontrollably as they curled together in the corner.

What are we going to do? my mother sobbed. All is lost. They will kill us all.

I pulled her and Kara to their feet and led them to the ladder that went up to the loft.

Climb up here and pull the ladder up behind you. There was more assurance in my voice than I felt in my heart. I will go and help father. Pray for us. God will help us, you will see.

As I exited the barn the way I had entered I stopped in my tracks as two men crawled within an arm’s reach of me. I quickly recognized them as my brothers and beckoned for them to join me. They had heard the screams and shouts from the valley where they were watching the sheep had wisely dismounted before they could be seen.

What is going on? Oswald whispered. Where’s mother and father? Are they safe?

I quickly explained.

Shall I ride and get Uncle Cedric? I think Uncle Reginald is there also.

No, he’s not, and there is no time for that. We must do what we can by ourselves. They do not know we are here so we can take them by surprise.

Oswald gave me one of his two knives and we decided to attack the Normans from different points. I sneaked to the opposite side while Oswald crawled and waited mid-way between Geoffrey and me. I would draw their attention and then my brothers would charge from where they were hiding.

We could easily kill one each without being noticed. The others were so involved in their attack on father and, in their satiated condition, could readily be overcome. Such was my reckoning. Although the blood boiled in my veins I was filled with confidence and excitement. Oswald and I moved slowly to our appointed positions. My first victim was an easy kill for I found him completely overcome by alcohol. My knife severed his spinal cord and he died quickly and silently less than one pace from his friend. I tapped him on the shoulder and, as he turned toward me, my blade sliced his throat. Oswald and Geoffrey had similar success and now it was the three of us against five of them. I shouted at the top of my lungs and we charged simultaneously upon the unexpecting enemy. It took but a moment for my knife to embed itself in the skull of the one holding my father. His dagger hardly had time to fall to the ground before it was in my hand slashing in the face of another. Less than thirty seconds passed before our enemies lay in a bloody heap.

I ran to my father’s side and gently raised his head.

Father, father, can you hear me? I was unsure whether he was dead or alive. I brushed the hair from his eyes and, to my delight, saw the corner of his mouth break into a smile.

Well done, my son, he said without opening his eyes. Well done.

We are all safe, father. Scared and a little roughed up, I laughed in an attempt to hide the seriousness of the situation.

Thank you my boys, he said proudly.

I looked up and saw my family standing with their arms around each other.

Mother, are you alright?

Yes, thanks to you and your brothers, Kara and I are safe and unharmed.

My father winced as he tried to sit up. My ribs are broken … so is my left shoulder. Help me up. I can walk to the house.

Are you sure, sweet one? My mother kneeled by his side and ran her fingers through his hair.

Stay where you are, father. We’ll make a stretcher and carry you. Geoffrey said kindly.

You will do nothing of the sort. But thank you. I will not be carried where I can walk. My legs are not broken—at least, I don’t think they are. Father smiled. Come, Ayden, you and Oswald lift me up—but be gentle. He winked at Kara and blew her a kiss.

He groaned as we lifted him up and he tried unsuccessfully to hide his pain from my mother.

Stop being so stubborn and let the boys carry you on a stretcher. My mother’s voice was a mixture of anger, sympathy and love.

I give in. Just this one time I’ll admit you are right, he smiled through gritted teeth. Will you fetch me a blanket, sweet bride, I am beginning to shiver. This was his favorite pet name for my mother. I have never heard him call her by any other name. They had such a wonderful relationship, one of deep love and respect. I remember the occasion when he taught me that love without respect is not love at all.

When the time comes for you to choose a bride, make sure there is mutual respect between the two of you before you stand in front of a priest.

He not only taught me with words but by example. My brother, Oswald, once told me he thought father was crazy. He had already decided to marry the first girl who fluttered her eyelids at him. Deka had regained consciousness and was busy sniffing the fallen soldiers.

It took just a few minutes to tie several pieces of wood together and carry father into the house. Carefully we laid him on a pallet in front of the hearth. I stoked the fire while Oswald fetched more logs. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead yet he continued to shiver. Mother added a second blanket over him and wiped his brow with a cool damp cloth. Meanwhile Kara prepared a bowl of warm lamb broth and knelt by his side. She gently raised his head and rested it on a soft goose down pillow.

Thank you, my little one, he smiled. I have no worries knowing that you will take care of me.

Kara put the bowl to his lips and he slowly sipped the broth. He flinched as he swallowed. I’m sorry, my dear, but it hurts to swallow.

But Father, the broth will do you good.

I know, allow me to rest a while then I will try again.

Kara glanced at her mother seeking her approval. She smiled and nodded her head. Your father is right, she smiled sweetly. He has a slight fever and he will feel better after he gets some sleep.

Mother says you need to sleep now, Kara whispered in his ear as if he had not heard. I will keep the broth warm for when you wake up.

He puckered his lips and blew her a kiss.

I love you too, Daddy, she said as she pulled the blankets up over his shoulders. We’ll be quiet so you can sleep.

My mother kneeled by his side, leaned over and kissed his forehead. Sleep well, my darling, she whispered, I’ll be close by if you need me.

When I wake I will be as fit as a ram in …

I’m sure you will, she interrupted him. Now get some sleep and remember the children are here.

He smiled as he closed his eyes. Within a few minutes the sound of heavy snoring filled the room.

With all that had happened with father, the dead Normans lying fifty feet from us, were completely forgotten—that is until Geoffrey said, What are we going to do with those soldiers?

My mother clasped her head in her hands. Oh, dear, I had forgotten all about them. Ayden, what must we do? Her eyes pierced right into me expecting an immediate answer.

I don’t know. I suddenly felt useless. I am the eldest and I should know what to do, but I didn’t.

Maybe we should dig a big hole and bury them. Geoffrey was always very simplistic with his ideas. You dare not joke around with him for he will take whatever you say seriously. When he asked father where babies came from he was told that a Stork dropped them through the smoke hole in the roof. Mother had a difficult time convincing him of the truth even though he knew very well how baby lambs and puppies were born.

I think we should load them in the cart and take them to the Norman camp in Hastings.

Oswald’s idea had merit. One of father’s more wise instructions was to always tell the truth. Lies will always come back and bite you in your sit-upon. If you lie to one person you will have to lie to others, then you will forget which lie you told to whom.

That is all very well and good, I replied. However, if they see us hauling a dozen dead Normans they will probably throw us in the dungeons and throw away the key. Can we take that chance?

I think we should bury them. Geoffrey stuck to his suggestion. Nobody knows they are here so why should they come here looking for them?

Should we wake your father? He will know what to do. Mother looked over to where her husband slept very quietly. In our concern of what to do with the Normans we had not noticed he had stopped snoring.

Let’s put them in the barn and wait for father to wake up. They are not going anywhere, are they? Oswald and Geoffrey, come and help me.

That is a good idea, Ayden. Then we can wait for father to awaken. He will know what to do. Mother’s face relaxed and she took a deep sigh.

My brothers and I went outside and for the first time looked closely at the mass of flesh and blood that lay in our yard. Flies already were taking their fill of blood and remained on the bodies even when we went close to them.

I can’t do this, Geoffrey cried. I’m going to be sick.

Oh, come on, Oswald mocked him. For once in your life pretend you are a man.

At that Geoffrey wretched and lost his last meal.

That’s just great, Oswald continued to deride him. You’re more like a little girl than a man.

Grow up yourself and leave your brother alone. He can’t help it. This is enough to make anyone vomit. My patience with Oswald was growing thin. Grab this one’s feet and help me drag him to the barn.

Oswald spit on the nearest Norman and reluctantly grabbed his feet. As we lifted the third corpse we quickly dropped him when he groaned.

My god, this one is still alive, Oswald jumped backward.

Not for long, I sneered through gritted teeth and withdrew my dagger and slit his throat. There, you have heard the last groan out of him.

I cannot believe the pleasure this gave me; my hatred for Normans was kindled to new heights after what they had done to my father.

Let’s get these demons from hell into the barn so we can wash their blood off our bodies.

As we dropped the last corpse Geoffrey asked, What about the horses? We now have twelve more.

And we’d better get busy and round them up. There is no telling where they have wandered. Horses