He looked down at the head of his brother on the ground.
The betrayals you face when you rule a country are seem never-ending, even from the people you trust.
“Sire?”
The softly spoken words jolted him back into the moment.
“They’re coming Sire. The ships have left”.
Harold wearily sank to his knees. So much blood.
March his tired men from Stamford Bridge? Repel the Normans on the beach of the south coast?
The sun peered through the clouds. A sign?
“Saddle up! We’re going pummel the Bastard back to Normandy”
He marches south to his date with destiny.
