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Feuer sounds better than the English word 'loose'...
Feu, not feuer. Feuer is german. Nitpicker second time today, do I need to get worried?
APRIL 3rd, 1067
THE BATTLE OF LIGERACEASTER
THE BATTLE OF LIGERACEASTER
The day was warm, the first real warm day of the entire campaign. The boys were still quite green, but hardened enough to stand and fight, after the confusion at Lannaceaster, and a minor success south of Carwood. There were now only 758 of the original 1,024 men.
The column had moved south through Ligeraceaster, with Morcar at the forefront. They were surprised to find the ceaster in fair condition. There had been time to repair, true; but the devastation described by the wounded soldier four months prior was not at all possible.
Next to the road, the town girls called out to the heroes of Northanhymbra, calling to the soldiers in a mix of Danish and English. The boys proceeded to call back to them, and those at the outside of the column had a chance to brag of their valour in the heat of battle. It only reminded Morcar of how much he missed his own Aelfwyn.
Someone in the column had begun singing, because now the entire army rang out in chorus. Spirits were high, as were the men on their rationed ale, and the notion was widely held that they could drive the Bastard out of England for good. The Wyvern banner flew high above the head of the column, above Morcar and his most trusted officers, Sverker Marsvin, a heavyset Norwegian expatriate of Danish noble ancestry, and Guillaume of Durham, a Norman who had settled in Eoforwic several years before the invasion.
The day progressed on, and Sverker's lewd sense of humour continuously filled the gap left by Guillaume's lack of any sort of sense of humour. As the minutes dragged by, one inane and perverse joke at a time, they began to notice something over the moors to left and right of them...
Lion banners. Quite a few, at that. Beneath one of them sat a handsome man with curly hair; the Bastard himself! Armies appeared over the knolls, greatly outnumbering the small Northanhybric force.
"Donnez-leur mort!" someone shouted from their ranks. All at once, arrows fell in waves upon the small army. Men fell by the dozen, and the volley was demoralizing so, that there was no option but to run. Forever would this be known as the blunder at Ligeraceaster.
Just discovered this. Good writing thus far! I hope that this latest set-back does not undo the hope of winning back England for the English! Hear's to Morcar and his lads!