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Saxon Blood
Dusk. A bleak moor. A ragged Norman knight leads a voiceless comrade by a chain around his neck.
Where are we? Guillaume?
This grey road...
Let us walk upon your crushed granite
It feels... slatey...
like slate.
Like Druid's bones.
This sun-forsaken valley!
The place reeks of crows and sodden rags.
How did we come to be here.
I should never have volunteered.
It's all your fault.
What's that?
This rust is Saxon blood
I thought it ink.
The slaughter rages around us, still.
Still?
Guillaume!!! Why did we come here!?
These are crude people, they call the swedes turnips
They wear animal fat and straw.
Rollo told me that they have a hole of mouth with one tooth.
A solemn bell tolls.
What was that sound?
The wind has gone.
The bell sounds again.
It was a hammer falling.
The killing has stopped.
Can you feel it?
Bell.
Yes, it is so.
Bell.
The ground will crack here. Now. Today!
See! There's something in the sky,
like a ribbon flowing from dawn to dusk.
Tambora embraces us,
its death-curl of cold pumice
I'm afraid of it.
I hate this place.
Let us return to Salisbury, to Norwich, to Winchester
Didn't Joan say so?
The corn will wilt.
The streams will choke.
Let the Saxons starve, and should they complain, kill them.
Isn't that right?
The bell tolls.
We've done all we can for these wretches.
Bell.
Enough.
to grow back.
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