‘I could see over a crest, I think I was near a ditch because there was a terrible stench, sort of like rusty iron and a lot of moaning. Then I realised that it came from a heap of bodies, just lying there like a pile of rubbish. There was the odd limb twitching. Flies everywhere. I’d never seen anything like it before and I was sick, really sick.’
I wasn’t surprised, and at that moment I believed him, his account was too vivid, the closest any of us got to the horror of hand-to-hand warfare was reading about it. He must be telling the truth. And blood smelt of iron.
‘I was distracted and the next thing I knew I had been grabbed by two soldiers. I thought I was done for, that I was going to die a thousand years before I was born. I couldn’t look at my wrist to see how long I had before I came back. I couldn’t understand a word they said, but they dragged me up to a hilltop where there was a group around a large banner. I knew that it was Harold and that I was in big trouble.’
Just then Greg and his mates sauntered in and Bryan slunk away to his place at the back. I needed to know the rest, how had he got away and returned without changing anything? The class were all assembled; I put my thoughts to the back of my mind and got on with the lesson.
‘Right then, on Friday we were discussing what single event would have changed everything and given us a different outcome.’ There was silence, I thought that Bryan might speak up, but he remained silent.
‘Anyone want to start?’ I asked. No one answered, they were quieter than usual. No one wanted to be first.
I went round the class, picking people at random, I deliberately left Bryan out, I wanted to keep him to the end. The other students gave various trite answers; the weather, William’s feint retreat and the presence of the track between the hills.
Greg spoke up; he liked the sound of his own voice. Outwardly he pretended not to care, mainly to impress the ladies. But under it all he had a fine mind. ‘I think it’s here,’ he said, pointing to one of the printed sheets I had given them all, ‘in the account of William of Malmesbury.’
‘That’s the least reliable one, Greg,’ I said, ‘it was written well after the event.’
‘Yes sir, but I looked at it again this morning and saw what I hadn’t noticed before.’ He waved the paper and everyone else rustled their work as they looked for their copies.
‘Well, Greg?’ I gave him a minute, ‘Do enlighten us.’
‘It’s all here sir; in William’s account, this is the moment that it all might have changed.’ He read aloud; ‘And in the midst of Harold’s group they brought to him a stranger, dressed as a monk and speaking a foreign tongue. His men found him wandering behind the lines, and fearing he was an agent of the Duke, had captured him. They now presented him for judgement. The stranger called out to Harold in his own tongue, Harold turned his head to gaze upon him, and an arrow hit his helmet’s cheek-piece and bounced away with a spark. Had the King not turned at that instant the arrow would surely have transfixed his eye and done him much harm. There was disorder around the banner, and more so when the stranger was no longer to be found.’
‘That’s it,’ Greg said, ‘the stranger saved the king, if he had been a second later then our Angleland would have had a very different future.’
‘And King Aethal would not be able to trace his line back to Harold,’ broke in Greta, ‘the longest unbroken royal house in Europa. Hell, we might even have been ruled by le Francois!’
I looked at Bryan; he sat in the corner as ever, I rarely noticed him. He looked at me and said nothing, but his eyes were full of tears. He was shaking his head as if the weight of the whole world was on him. I didn’t understand why, perhaps he would tell me later. After all; I still had to hear how he had escaped without changing history.
‘Who do you think the stranger was?’ I said to the class, ‘I suppose we’ll never know.’
‘Unless we had a time machine,’ said Greg.
Author’s Note
I’ve tried to bring a science fiction twist to the history, perhaps something that you might not expect. The minute events that taken together shape the flow of human experience has always fascinated me, and I’m forever wondering ‘what if’? Here I have tried to project that into a story. What if you could go back and change things, even if you hadn’t meant to would it be impossible not to? And what would be the result?
My particular passion is writing science fiction with an emphasis on the realistic. I believe in putting familiar things and situations in a different setting rather than reinventing everything.
Richard Dee
www.richarddeescifi.co.uk
Discussion suggestions
If you had a time machine, what one event in history would you want to change and why?
If you could travel back in time, how could you ensure the ‘Butterfly Effect’ would not occur (the theory that even to inadvertently kill one butterfly in the past, the present – the future – would be dramatically changed)?
JULY
1066
In Normandy the single biggest concern for William and his lords was the critical problem of how to get their horses over the Narrow Sea (the English Channel). Normans fought on horseback – that is to say, Norman nobles fought on horseback. William also had a vast infantry force and a significant number of crossbowmen, but the intimidation of a Norman army was in its mounted cavalry. To go into battle without them was unthinkable but the Normans were used to fighting in northern France where they could ride to meet their enemies.
Despite their long coastline, Normandy had no navy so the Narrow Sea was a huge barrier. The only expertise they had to draw on were those men who had returned from the less well known but equally impressive Norman Conquest of Italy and Sicily in the years leading up to 1066. Under their guidance, much effort was put into the building of a fleet of vessels to transport not just the men but the horses to England to invade.
The ‘Ship List’ is one of our few primary sources for the crucial year of 1066. It lists all the major Norman lords and the number of ships they provided for William, and is a fascinating testament to the scale of the operation. Some ships would have been commandeered from traders, or bought in from other, more seafaring nations but many were built for this one purpose – to invade England.
A ROMAN INTERVENES
ALISON MORTON
Roma Nova is an imaginary country, a remnant of the Western Roman Empire. Founded (in the author’s imagination) in AD 395 by dissident pagans when Theodosius enforced Christianity throughout the Empire, the tiny mountain state has negotiated or fought its way through the unstable, dangerous times of the Roman dusk and the Early Middle Ages.
Daughters as well as sons carried weapons to defend their homeland, their gods and their way of life. Fighting danger side-by-side with brothers and fathers on equal terms reinforced women’s status and enhanced their roles in all parts of Roma Novan life, including that of ruler.
But like their ancestors, the 11th century Roma Novans have determination, war-fighting skills and engineering genius. Outside the usual circles of alliances, they often act as intermediaries, overtly and covertly. They know other people’s secrets…
Currently living under the shadow of the Eastern Roman Empire (the Byzantine Empire as we know it), Roma Nova dances carefully, but sometimes has to give in to its much larger cousin. Hence the presence of Countess Galla Mitela, chief advisor to the imperatrix of Roma Nova, at the court of William of Normandy. Could these tough, strange people negotiate between Saxon England and Normandy, appointed Harold and ambitious William? And did they have an alternative plan?
‘Gods, Galla, how long are we going to be stuck in this cursed boat?’
I stood in the prow and looked down at my cousin huddling in her misery. She’d puked all the way across the British Sea to Gaul and almost all the way down the Sequana river that the Normans called the Seine. Poor child. Claudia
was only seventeen and hated going out on the river at home.
‘Not long now. The shipmaster assures me we’ll reach Rotomagus this afternoon.’ No, Rou-en. Gods, it sounded like a donkey braying.
It was only the fourth day since we’d left the harbour near Magnus Portus now the Saxon port of Bosham. We’d headed across the choppy water for Gesoriacum, once the proud home of the Roman Classis Britannica, the vital link between Gaul and Britannia. As we’d sailed past, it looked like a scruffy little hole in the wall, its dock half silted up. Well, its function as northern fleet headquarters had been over six centuries ago. What had I expected? Little had been built since our ancestors left Gaul. We’d sailed further south down the coast, passing the wide bay of the Samara. The salt tang of the open sea was invaded by the smell of brackish marshes. Screwing my eyes up and peering across the wide, open expanse of the flatlands, I’d seen a group of tiny warships bobbing in the water in the natural harbour. They were making their way towards us, the harbour mouth and ultimately the open sea. But we passed by before they came anywhere near us.
I shivered in the chill July morning and drew my cloak round me. Instead of the pale breaking light of a clear sky heralding a fair summer’s day, it was misty and overcast again. Our Saxon escort from the ship fyrd left us, setting off for the safety of England before we entered the mouth of the Sequana. We sailed past a boatyard on the south bank too frantic with activity even at that hour to notice another foreign trading ship. Tents and ramshackle huts clustered around a village the shipmaster called Hunefloth. I could hear the clanging of metal upon metal across the open water.
We sailed upriver only passing the occasional small vessel dwarfed by our trader; the land either side was mostly wooded interspersed with fields and peasants’ cottages. No farms or villas, just the occasional jetty or mooring point. As we rounded the steep headland dominated by the castle of Robert the Devil, I wondered what kind of reception we would get at Rotomagus.
We’d left the Saxon port with many good wishes for our travels, food and wine for our journey and a sad smile from one particular warrior on the quayside. Eadmær. I grasped the wooden rail harder. I’d watched until his tall figure had diminished to a blur. If we failed, I would never see him again. If we succeeded, he was his king’s man and would never come back with me to Roma Nova. I released my breath.
‘Still dreaming of your yellow-haired Saxon?’ Claudia gave me a knowing look. ‘Is he blond all over his body?’
I felt the warmth crawling up my neck into my face. ‘No concern of yours, child. Be silent.’ I frowned at her.
‘I’m not a child and you can’t talk to me in that way. You might be the senior countess and my mother’s chief advisor, but I’m her daughter and heir!’
‘Then behave like it. The imperatrix would be ashamed of your behaviour.’
She shrugged and turned her back to me and pretended to study the scenery. She sulked until we rounded the last bend in the Sequana and saw our destination. A small town on a flat river plain, based on the earlier walled castrum, squatted against wooded hills. As we approached the mooring point to the west away from the shallow channels and low islands, we could see work parties labouring to build a more formal quayside. On deck, our servants busied themselves preparing our bundles for disembarkation to smaller boats which would take us to the solid ground of the town. Claudia leaned towards me.
‘Aren’t we going to change?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with how we are dressed,’ I replied. ‘We are as we are.’ We wore practical wool tunics over linen shirts, trousers, long boots and wool hooded cloaks. Both of us had tied our hair back in a single long plait, although Claudia’s curly brown hair sprang away and framed her face. And we’d taken the precaution of wearing our imperial badges.
‘Domina.’ The Praetorian centurion nodded his head in the direction of a small boat coming towards us. I leaned over the side and watched as two men scrambled up the rope ladder one of our sailors had let down.
The first over the rail was a dark-haired, close-shaven sturdy man who had little trouble heaving himself on board. He was followed by a slighter man who had hitched his long tunic up into his belt to scale the side and fidgeted as he smoothed it back down. His head was shaved on the crown; a priest. The first man, dressed in a maroon tunic with embroidered edging, and a silver belt, cast around, passed over Claudia and me and addressed himself to the centurion.
‘I am Gilbert de Boscville,’ he said, to the centurion. ‘Where is your commander?’ he asked in Latin with an accent so thick I could barely understand.
The Saxons had warned us about de Boscville; he was one of Duke William’s close aides, a harsh ruler of his lands and fiercely loyal to his master. I nodded to the centurion, who drew back.
‘I am Galla Mitela, imperial councillor and Countess of the South, leading the Roma Nova delegation,’ I began. ‘May I present Claudia Apulia, daughter and heir of Imperatrix—’
‘Where is the commander?’ he interrupted and waved impatiently.
The servants froze. Some gasped. The centurion drew his sword and closed the gap between Claudia and de Boscville. The remaining Praetorians took a step closer to me.
De Boscville frowned, but stepped back at the centurion’s fierce glare.
‘My Lord de Boscville, you are insolent as well as ignorant,’ I said in my coldest voice. ‘Have the goodness to wait until I have finished speaking. And listen to each word carefully.’
Claudia stared at me. Perhaps she had never heard me reprimand anybody so severely.
De Boscville flushed and the features on his dark face drew closer.
‘I do not deal with women. Where is the senior man? I am to escort him and his delegation to my lord duke.’
‘Then you are destined to be disappointed. He does not exist.’ I flicked my hand impatiently. ‘Are we to remain here all night waiting on your dignity? If Duke William does not wish to hear the latest news from England, then we will set sail now.’ I turned and waved to the shipmaster. ‘Plot a course downriver away from this barbarian place and find us a berth for the night. Tomorrow we return to Roma Nova.’
‘At once, domina.’ He bowed and hurried off waving arms and shouting.
‘The Praetorians will see you off my ship, Lord de Boscville, or you will be sailing with us.’ I turned my back on him and grasped Claudia’s arm.
‘What are you doing?’ she hissed at me as we entered the little cabin amidships.
‘Tactics, my girl. You wait and see.’
‘But Mother will kill you if you don’t see the duke. She says you have to stop this war.’
‘We’ll see him, don’t worry.’ I smiled to myself and counted the heartbeats that passed.
Five minutes later, we were climbing down the rope ladder to the small boat waiting below. We’d declined the sling usually used for ‘ladies’. De Boscville scowled in silence, forced to have acknowledged us. To be truthful, he looked ill. As the boat bobbed in the water, I smiled graciously at the priest who promptly crossed himself, no doubt warding himself against the pagan Romans. On the riverside, a troop of horsemen were waiting for us with spare mounts. Their captain looked at de Boscville, a question on his face.
‘You can ride, I assume?’ he said.
I said nothing, but Claudia and I swung up onto the two tallest horses in reply. The six Praetorians were given mounts and fell in behind us, immediately in front of de Boscville’s men.
‘Pray lead on, my lord,’ I said in my most condescending tone and nodded. He grunted and led off.
‘Well, it’s comfortable enough, but not warm,’ Claudia said. She fidgeted on a velvet covered padded stool as my body servant teased her curly hair up into an intricate pattern of plaits holding her diadem secure. I pressed my hand onto her shoulder.
‘Sit still, child, and let Marcia do her work.’ I draped her wool stola a
cross her shoulders. ‘We have to look as imposing as possible. The duke is a hard man, but apparently impressed by ceremony. That is why you must wear gold in your hair and purple on your back.’
‘But I don’t understand why you are wearing your Praetorian lorica.’ She ran her eye down my figure. Like hers, my hair was bound up in classic Roman style, but plainer. Over a dark green tunic which nearly reached the floor but didn’t cover my senator’s red boots, I wore Praetorian lorica hamata, the chain mail shirt complete with phalerae I’d earned. I’d tied a simple black knotted legionary’s focale around my neck against the draughts. Hung across my shoulders was the gold chain collar with the Mitela badge decorated with myrtle leaf and eagle enamel. And whatever de Boscville had said about bearing arms in the castle, my gladius was firmly attached at the left to my gold and leather belt along with a ceremonial pugio dagger on the right. The combined weight was not inconsiderable. I’d chosen a dark green cloak pinned with a chased gold fibula my mother had given my when I became an imperial councillor. I touched it for luck. May her spirit and Juno guide me tonight.
A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts and my answer to Claudia. The Praetorian commander and his troop waited in formation in the corridor. The flickering torches in the wall sconces reflected on their polished helmets. I held my hand out to Claudia.
‘Come, principissa.’
‘Don’t call me by that stupid name, Galla. That’s what he calls me.’ Her face flushed red with anger. I pressed her fingers in sympathy and kept my own sourness inside. ‘He’, or as I called him in my head ‘that Eastern bastard’, was Claudia’s mother’s companion, Gregory. He’d arrived two years ago from Constantinople, the son of the late emperor Constantine Monomachos, and had spent that time worming his way into the imperatrix’s favour. He was behind me being sent on this mission, cozening the imperatrix, saying I was equipped with unique statecraft gifts and experience to mediate between Saxons and Northmen. As her chief advisor, I was obviously in his way in his quest for power. Roma Nova had been pressured by the Eastern Roman emperor to mediate between Normandy and England: the Saxons were valuable trading partners for them as well as for Roma Nova. Although many Norman mercenaries served the Eastern Empire’s military forces, the emperor was wary of their expansion into Italy. The Norman warriors were fierce, efficient and usually victorious. Nothing seemed to stop them; perhaps it was the wolfish Viking blood that ran in their veins. If Normandy won England and dominated the North their power would increase considerably.
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