• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 11
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The heavy, uncomfortable stirrup,
With the knife-like spur had dug into my side since Dawn’s first shafts cut across the sky.

From behind a wall of round shields;
Spears like arrows had flown past me and grazed my flank.

Backwards and forwards without a pause,
I have ridden, galloped and charged.

The noise of hooves accompanying me, as my rider collected freshly tipped and glittering spears of death to hurl towards the bunched up human barricade.

The Anglo Saxons and our Norman herd all trained warriors and noblemen,

Combat claims my rider and he has fallen to be trampled by other horses floundering in a fosse,

The weight of his chain mail and my burden of fear gone,
A chance for me to flee the deadly dance of death,
Escape the cries and piercing screams of men and my brethren on the blood stained battlefield of Hastings.