On weary feet, the folk of Ordgar travelled south to join the army of King Harold Godwinson. A vast army of our Saxon people had gathered, their many banners snapping viciously in the wind.
Friends and friends-yet-to-be-made gathered on the rugged slope of Senlac hill. Grim warriors all, they faced an almighty foe behind a vast battered shield wall, bristling with spears still stained with Viking blood.
On this fateful day, the sky turned black under the weight of deadly arrows, the ground shook with the thunder of enemy horses and the air shattered with the cries of battle.
Blood fed the soil as our blades brought death to our enemies, shields buckled under the weight of this murderous threat to our land.
Again and again they were pushed back, yet still they came.
A frenzy for slaughter erupted from a group of our warrior kin and they charged with all their might to their doom.
News of our fallen king spread through our ranks like a plague on our courage. Yet we fought on, with our shield wall and hearts broken.
No Saxon warrior was spared on this day, all threw their lives upon the Norman blades.
A hush settled on the battlefield as the crows descended upon the fallen and a haunted wind whispered through the trees, foretelling of the death of our England.
A death of our way of life, our culture, our civilisation…
On a lighter note…
Ordgar unleashed Bob, our decapitated friend, upon all those who visited our camp.
A Saxon man plucked his co…male chicken, all weekend!
Torstein had some fine dark age dentistry administered by Prior Godwyn…when Torstein stopped screaming, he was most pleased with his smile.
Old friends were met and new ones made.
Alcohol drank and authentic stew filled our bellies.
Bring on next years 1066, these Normans won’t know what hit them.