Stephen Baxter - Conqueror

'And even as we marched Harold sent envoys and spies ahead of the column. That was when he heard of the disaster that befell the northern earls.'

'The battle at the Foul Ford – I was nearby.'

'That doesn't surprise me,' Sihtric said dryly. 'Actually Harold believed the earls had been right to try to contain the Norse before they took Jorvik, and at least Hardrada had been held up. At the news of their failure Harold marched on, undaunted.

'And so we came to Stamfordbrycg. We had marched since dawn, and I thought the English might rest. But Harold fell on the enemy immediately. Surprise, and the decisiveness to make use of it: those are his strengths. And there at Stamfordbrycg, as the day wore on – well, you know the rest; you saw it. The Norse were exhausted. You can win one battle; it's hard to win two.

'And Harold saw Tostig cut down. I believe it broke his heart. But he would do it again,' Sihtric whispered. 'Yes, he would do it again.'

Impulsively Godgifu touched his arm. 'Don't get too bound up in the glamour of war, Sihtric. Remember you're the King's priest, not his housecarl.'

Sihtric smiled. 'Perhaps I am becoming addicted to the stink of blood. What sport, though! When you get close enough to it you can see why men will always wage war.'

'And what of the prophecy?' she asked. 'After all that has happened, is the Aryan empire still achievable?'

'I think so,' Sihtric muttered, and his eyes glazed as he receded into a private world of calculation. 'I think so, yes. Tostig was a rogue element. Harold should have cut him down when the Northumbrians rebelled. If Tostig had not lived, he would not have stirred Hardrada to mount his opportunistic invasion. And then Harold and his forces would not have had to endure this battle, win this victory. Indeed if Harold had been able to make his alliance with the Norse, as I urged him, his own forces would be stronger, untested – and he might, conceivably, have Hardrada's Norse at his side, rather than lying slain over muddy Northumbrian fields…'

'If, if, if.'

'Yes. There's nothing to be done about it now.'

Messengers came into the hall. They whispered to the housecarls, who urgently spoke to the King. Harold stood, his face thunderous, and stormed out of the hall.

Sihtric was slightly drunk, and was confused. 'What's going on?'

'Can you not hear what is being said? A message has come from Harold's brother Leofwine, in Lunden. William has sailed.'

Sihtric was wide-eyed. 'It is October. I thought we were safe for the year-'

'Evidently not.'

'Then Harold will go south again – and so must I.'

Sihtric joined the crush to leave the hall, and Godgifu hurried after him.

On the day of the crossing, Orm had woken to a murmur of excitement outside his tent. Hastily pulling on his tunic and leggings, he went outside to find a clear blue sky, air unseasonably warm for October – and the breeze, though soft, blew from the south, at last.

Already the horns blew, summoning the Christian warriors to mass.

Orm hurried to find his lord, Robert Count of Mortain, who was tense, excited, relieved. 'God has granted us the weather,' he told Orm and his men, 'and a moonless night to boot.'

'So we go,' murmured Orm.

'William has willed it; God has permitted it.'

And they shouted together, 'We go!'

The intention was to sail at night, but embarking in the dark would have caused chaos. So William's plan was to launch at high tide that afternoon, form up his fleet off the coast, and sail for England overnight.

The morning was one of frantic loading. In long chains the men passed bales of clothing, weaponry and provisions to the ships. It took two men to carry a hauberk, a heavy mail coat, strung on a pole. The horses were tricky, and every last one of them had to be soothed, coaxed, bribed and bullied to climb the timber ramps to the ships and settle down in its covered stall. At last, as high tide approached, the men clambered aboard. They hung their leaf-shaped shields along the gunwales as the Normans' Viking forebears had always done.

To cries from the captains, a clanging of bells, a blowing of horns, and blessings from the priests, the ships pulled away. Oars splashed, their blades glittering as they cut in their ancient rhythms into the water, and the sails, brightly coloured, billowed as they caught the soft southerly breeze.

The dragon ships spread out over the flat water, mist-drenched, like images in a painting. Each of them bore a snarling animal's head at its prow. William's own ship, a gift from his wife, was called Mora, and at its prow was a finely carved figure of a child with a bow, and an effigy of his son Robert. Orm had sailed all his life but never as part of such a fleet as this. After so many weeks stuck on the Frankish shore, Orm relished the swell of the ship on the sea, the fresh salt of the breeze. Even the earthy stink of the horses was blown away.

The ships were rowed to their muster point not far from the coast, where the water was shallow enough for anchoring. As the dark gathered the crews lit lanterns in their ships' mastheads, one by one, and the fleet became an archipelago of yellow lights, stretching as far as the eye could see. Orm lay down under his cloak, his head resting on his helmet, his stiff mail coat at his side. Listening to the lapping of the water against the clinker-built hull and to the voices of the crews as they taunted each other in the dark, he imagined he was a child, safe in his father's ship, on the way to Vinland.

In the darkest hour there came a horn's soft note. When Orm sat up, he saw that his ship was underway once more, the sail unfurled. The crossing proper had begun. Though they still hugged the Frankish coast, already the men had begun to speak in whispers, as if King Harold in Lunden might hear.

In the dark, Odo came to Orm. 'Quite an expedition – don't you think, Orm Egilsson?' His eyes shadowed, Odo's face was a mask, like his brother William's and yet not, with that hint of oily subtlety, that slyness.

Orm had no excuse to get away from Odo's uncomfortable conversation. He said cautiously, 'The greatest expedition to cross this water since the Romans, they say.'

'Well, true. In fact we come third, according to the histories I've read, after Claudius a thousand years ago, and Caesar a hundred years before him. But then the Caesars had the resources of an empire to call upon, and William only has a duchy.'

'As yet,' said Orm dutifully.

'As yet, indeed. That might change soon, if we prevail. Tell me – you're a military man – how do you see our chances?'

Orm shrugged. 'It's late in the season, that's our biggest gamble. We need to bring the English to battle quickly, and to win decisively. And yet-'

'Yes?'

'If we hadn't sailed now, the momentum would have been lost. We could never put this lot back together again next season.'

'Yes. I think you probably know William has drained the duchy to pay for this expedition. A man like William doesn't have long to achieve greatness. He has already outlived Alexander by a decade or more. Life is brief, Orm! Especially for a warrior prince. And this may be his last chance.'

'We are privileged to be sailing with him,' Orm said evenly.

Odo grunted, amused. 'You're saying what you think I want to hear, aren't you? But you're right. And if we succeed, if Normandy grabs England with this bold stroke, I dare say that in days to come the men who will claim to have sailed with William tonight will outnumber us ten to one. Eh? And, of course, we sail with a far mightier presence.'

'The Lord God.' Orm bowed his head.

Odo laughed. 'You really are trying to please me, aren't you, pagan?'

'You're a bishop,' Orm said. 'Just trying to be polite.'