Title: The Diary of the Knight Alistair of Normandy
Summary: "The year is 1066. I fight now for fight runs in my naïve veins. Onward to England where the Saxons keep their greedy claws sunk deep!"
Story Notes: This is set in the year 1066. It was a history assignment that I took a little too far. Ha, well, this is the diary of a knight fighting in the Battle of Hastings.
Author's Note: I realize that this first chapter is very short, but I've decided to make each entry its own chapter. I would really love some reviews. Right now, I'm not too far above begging.
Year – 1066
The year is 1066. I've been following the battle line from our home territory in the midst of France, to the unknowns of England. Our great leader, Duke William, promised many spoils and much blunder if we carried on with him crossed the cavernous treachery - the monstrosity known as the English Channel.
I write now in this diary to remember the feelings I've now – and have yet to – experience on this legendary mission. I realize that it's much a childish and feminine notion, but I care not at the moment. A young boy christened Kipling awarded me with this journal as a form of gratitude for saving his hide from a higher ranked knight.
It may be old, the pages ribbed and have the haunting remnants of fire, but all the same, 'tis good, and will be put to good use; but as for the poor child Kipling, he is nothing but a glorified page, dragged into the ferocity of battle due to his near arbitrary roles of a squire.
I myself am no more than a freshly dubbed squire. Twenty-one and new to the scene of battle. Life changed drastically from the quiet peace of a townsman's life. I was less than the years I can remember when I took interest in the scenes of battle - and the only reason I reached page-hood was because of a friendship I had with a boy whose father was a lord.
The boy's name was Drake. He accompanied me on this journey as my friend in the midst of a sea of enemies, as I've been promised we should face. He is also newly dubbed and blood boils at the thought a battle.
I realize the dangers of battle, and some call me naïve, but I've felt the calling of spilt blood and grease and sweat from a young age. Those who know me call me sadistic, and the elders call me foolish, but I care not of people's words, either. This battle, I know, will make me reach the great treasury of knights and honor.
Camp has been set for the eighth night of our journey. I hear that soon we will come upon the English Channel. I've craved to see the likes of so much water for much of my life. Water flows like blood when running freely, and that warms the crimson rushing in my own veins.
The camp still buzzes with the excitement of eight thousand men. Such a large number I've never before encountered, but this makes me more thrilled with where I am than even the first sight of the channel shall, undoubtedly.
Dusk draws near and I haven't a candle to keep light enough to continue my writing. I suppose that this will do for my first entry. Goodnight, from the year 1066 – month of September, if my calculations are correct.
A/N: I hope anyone who reads this likes it as much as my history teacher. I'm really not above begging for reviews, honestly. I know not very many people read my stories, and I get that, but to those who do, please drop in a quick review. It does make my day. Thank-you.