I awoke as the sun glowed red on the eastern horizon, its gentle light filtering through the arched stone window of Salerno Fortress—an ancient Byzantine structure, now a symbol of Norman might in Sicily. The morning air on this island always carried the sharp tang of Mediterranean salt, blended with the fresh scent of olives from groves sprawling down the hillsides. In the distance, cathedral bells tolled solemnly from Palermo's grand church nearby, mingling with the whinnying of horses in stone stables—a reminder that life here was ever primed for war. I sat up on the rough wooden bed, my linen nightshirt clinging with night-sweat; Sicily's summer nights were stifling, my sleep often fractured by dreams of blood and sea. On the bedside table lay my Norman sword, sheathed in weathered cowhide worn smooth by years, its blade gleaming from nightly polishing with olive oil and clean cloth. It was more than a weapon—my sole companion, witness to every survival from Normandy to Yorkshire, from the Manche waves to Gascony's hills. I washed in cold water from a large copper basin, gazing at my distorted reflection: storm-gray eyes deep as troubled seas, a thick jaw-beard hiding minor scars, and a long one trailing from ear to neck—legacy of a Toulouse ambush. At twenty-one, I looked older than my years, body honed to steel with muscles forged in countless battles. But in Sicily, where war was daily breath, youth was a fleeting illusion; we were old souls in young frames, ever ready for death.
Breakfast in Sicily was simple yet ritualistic, preparation for a day of uncertainty. I descended to the fortress's vast stone hall, walls thick with ancient Byzantine motifs—warriors and crosses etched in stone, evoking the island's turbulent past from Greek antiquity through Saracen rule to our Norman conquest. I sat with three close comrades: Hakon the Norwegian, a golden-haired giant with tangled beard and thunderous laugh, once a Viking sailor before joining Roger I's Sicilian campaigns; Pietro from Calabria, dark-skinned with knife-sharp eyes, a local soldier versed in mountain terrain; and Guillaume—a Norman countryman from Rouen, short brown hair and melancholic smile, who had fought beside me in York's Harrying of the North. The meal: fire-toasted hard bread, fresh goat cheese from hillside herds, a jug of watered local wine—its bitter tang awakening the body after fitful sleep. We spoke little, only the soft crunch of chewing and knife on old porcelain, each knowing today might be his last. Hakon broke the silence with last night's tale of an Italian girl in a nearby village, voice warm and amused: "Eyes black as Sicilian night, smile that made me forget I'm a sellsword." Pietro chuckled dryly, flashing even white teeth: "Watch her husband isn't a Saracen archer, Hakon. We conquer, not die for love." Guillaume eyed me, blue gaze flickering nostalgia, asking in familiar Norman: "Sir Ealdred, do you remember England? Yorkshire's green meadows, where we herded sheep before swords?" My reply came dry as desert wind: "I recall no place that drove me out, Guillaume. England is memory of blood and fire, like all else." The table fell silent, only wind whispering through windows with sea scent. We drained the last wine, rose, clapped shoulders in silent luck, and prepared for morning drill—essential for Norman knights in Sicily, where survival hinged on strength and skill.
The training yard lay at Salerno's wall-base, a wide flat expanse ringed by towering stone ramparts, first sunlight striking like fiery swords, illuminating old siege scars—cracks from prior assaults. I donned heavy scale mail, metal glinting, gripped a sturdy wooden shield carved with the Hauteville dragon—Roger I's lineage emblem. Sparring Hakon, each clash rang like a death symphony: steel shrieking, sweat soaking under-tunic, blood trickling from a split lip as he thrust hard. I blocked with shield, twisted fluid as sea wind, countered with Viking axe—blade arcing lethally, forcing retreat. He dodged nimbly, lunged with long spear, iron tip flashing. After an exhausting hour, muscles aching yet mind sharp, I switched to mounted drill—vital in Sicily's conquest, where mountains and plains demanded cavalry swift as leopards. My black warhorse, Morcar—named for a Saxon earl I felled at York—was powerful and willful as its master. I tightened leather reins, spurred iron heels, galloped the yard, wind roaring past ears, spear piercing straw targets—exploding in shreds, cheers echoing like heavenly praise. I didn't smile, only nodded satisfaction; my heart held no room for shallow joy—only the steady rhythm of axe, steel, survival day by day, a fateful curse accepted since leaving Normandy.
Sicilian noon blazed like hell's forge, sun high in azure sky, scorching all below.
Mediterranean winds swept endless olive groves, carrying salt, pine resin from ancient woods, sun-baked grass. I sat in cool wall-shadow, helm heavy beside me, drinking from an old leather flask—clear mountain-spring water quenching throat-fire. Far off, Italian peasants stooped harvesting golden wheat, white shirts sweat-stained, singing sad Calabrian folk tunes. Their lives simple, enviable: tilling dawn to dusk, praying before Madonna icons in tiny churches, dying peacefully without blood and flame. But I, Normandy mud wanderer, had chosen the blade's path, each day a duel with death. Guillaume joined, plucking an old stringed lute—ancient French melodies rising in sun-wind, sad and gentle as Normandy field memories. I gazed skyward, thinking of Mother—Elswyth, dead of fever when I was three, in a low timber hut by Mont-Saint-Michel abbey. Gentle woman, long brown hair, warm smile, lulling me with old Saxon songs. Were she alive, would she know this sword-bearing son, speaking Latin over Saxon, soul blood-stained by countless lives? I smiled faintly, shook off the thought—in Sicily, where Normans seized inch by inch from Saracens, weakness had no place. We were invaders, bearing cross and iron, building empire on blood and fire, as Roger I did at Palermo in 1072, routing Arabs to forge a mighty Norman kingdom.
As afternoon waned, sun softening yet fierce, I rode Morcar patrolling Salerno—a daily duty ensuring security amid Sicily's unstable conquest, Saracen and Byzantine holdouts still rebelling. Salerno Castle loomed on high hill, overlooking glittering blue sea, masts swaying in bustling harbor—ships from Genoa, Venice, even Constantinople laden with spices, silk, gold. Along winding trails, sea wind billowed my silver-flecked cloak, carrying fresh fish and village cookfire smoke. Sicilians feared me—foreign-eyed with cold gaze, Viking axe at hip, exotic amid curved Italian swords. Through the lively market below, women in colorful long skirts sold sea-caught fish, local wine, vibrant dyed cloths from Palermo workshops. Dark-skinned children chased Morcar, shouting: "Sir Ealdred! Sir Ealdred! Tell Viking tales!" I tossed them gleaming copper coins, smiled briefly, rode on—these young ones echoed my childhood, but luckier, as Sicily steadied under Norman yoke. At the east gate, I inspected guards—young Italian and Norman lads standing rigid, armor shining in fading sun, eyes weary from endless watch. I spoke low, stern yet seasoned: "War never warns. When peace seems deepest, the knife hides behind. Keep eyes wide, ears to the wind." A young guard trembled, nodded: "Yes, sir." I smiled inwardly—words from Anselm de Mortain, old Toulouse commander, teaching survival lay in ceaseless vigilance, not just strength.
I was summoned to the fortress's grand hall, a vast chamber with ancient Byzantine marble columns, draped in crimson Norman banners and cross-embroidered tapestries—symbols of the crusade Normans pursued in Sicily. Lord Ruggero di Sicilia—Roger I, the great count with speckled white beard and hawk-sharp blue eyes—sat on a silver-carved wooden chair, red-gold cloak flowing, surrounded by advisors and loyal knights. A living legend, leading the Hauteville brothers' conquest since 1061, crushing Saracens at epic battles like Cerami, claiming divine favor. Ruggero fixed on me, voice deep and authoritative: "Ealdred, tomorrow night, take ten men across the Messina Strait—Saracens seized my Genoa merchant cargo. Recover it, but spare innocents; we conquer by strength, not slaughter." I bowed respectfully, voice firm: "Yes, my lord. I'll return what is ours." Ruggero paused, eyes piercing soul-deep: "I've seen many like you—kill yet keep clear eyes, unswallowed by darkness. Don't let your soul slumber in blood, Ealdred. Sicily needs knights to build, not just destroy." I stood silent, a strange warmth rising—respect from a great lord, yet warning of the monster growing within.
Exiting the hall, late sun slanted through long stone corridors, gilding my armor in pale gold flecks. I knew tomorrow night meant more blood, but it was my trade—the only one I knew, in Normans' grand Sicilian conquest.
As sun sank into the Mediterranean, Salerno camp bathed in copper-red glow, like blood of past battles. In my small tent—wooden cot, writing desk, weapon rack—I sharpened my sword on whetstone, hands moving in familiar rhythm, steel screeching in quiet night.
Hakon entered, setting a wineskin of red: "For tomorrow's fight, Sir Ealdred. Sicilian wine brings luck." I drank deeply, warmth burning throat, banishing fatigue. We spoke sparingly, checking saddle straps, arrow points, boot-hidden daggers—in war, silence was highest brotherhood respect. Hakon spoke of distant Norway, deep blue fjords, snow blankets, but I listened half-heartedly; my heart held no nostalgia room. Through tent slit, night cloaked endless olive groves, sea wind chilling like death's breath. I stroked my Viking axe haft, carved with my own Latin lines: "Non patria, sed victoria"—"No fatherland, only victory"—and "Vita est bellum"—"Life is war." Both painfully true: no true home, only fragile triumphs for existence, life an endless chain of battles. I closed eyes, slept to distant wave-thuds, awaiting bloody dawn—a restless slumber where Mother, Manche seas, Senlac Hill wove into nightmares.
We left Salerno at midnight, faint new moon silvering trails, twelve knights in dark armor blending with shadows, horses muzzled in soft cloth for silence. The path to Messina Strait wound treacherous through ancient olive woods and jagged mountain slopes, Sicily's terrain ally or foe by skill. Moonlight glinted on helms, sea wind carrying salt and dust. I led, long spear in hand, ears attuned to every whisper—rustling leaves, night-owl hoots, strait waves. At Messina's shore—a narrow water barring Sicily from Calabria mainland—we spotted Saracen village lanterns flickering opposite, white stone homes moon-glowed. A small boat awaited, arranged by Pietro with loyal local fishermen. We crossed ghostly silent, black waves lapping hulls, evoking old Manche voyages. On the far bank, Eastern spices wafted strong—cinnamon, nutmeg, Saracen cookfire charcoal—reminding we trod enemy ground, where Normans still fought for dominion.
I signaled halt, splitting into two groups: one to the seaside warehouse of stolen goods, one holding horses and retreat watch. I led the advance, drawing Viking axe, cold steel under moon—no prayers, only primal survival guiding. Saracens spotted us breaking the wooden warehouse door—Arabic shouts, then spears and swords clashing in chaos. I spun agile, slashing the first rusher's belly—blood spraying red rain, foul in night air. Hakon took a spear to shoulder; I yanked him behind, shield blocking another whistling thrust, metal ringing. Steel shrieks, terrified horse neighs, pained screams wove a death chorus. In scattered torch-smoke, I saw young Ruggero—lord's sixteen-year-old son, golden hair, resolute eyes—knife to throat by a massive Saracen, blood trickling shallow wound. Without hesitation, I hurled my axe—blade flashing moon-lightning, embedding in the foe's chest, final groan as he fell. The boy freed, gazed grateful. We torched the warehouse to mask traces, reclaimed chests—gold, spices, silk—retreating swiftly before village guards arrived. On the return boat, I glanced back—flames blazing bright, reflecting on black water like hell's canvas. Hakon panted, shoulder hastily bound: "You saved Hauteville blood again, Ealdred. Second time." I replied curtly: "Just my duty." But inside, tonight's blood would cling to long dreams, war's unrelenting curse.
We returned to Salerno at first light, sea mist chilling armor, horses snorting weary after the trek. Ruggero awaited at the gate, red cloak fluttering in dawn wind, smiling satisfied at safe cargo and unharmed son. He gripped my shoulders firmly, voice moved: "You are my sword, Ealdred—sharp and true. Sicily owes you grace." I bowed, fatigue mingling pride. As others dispersed to rest, I climbed the fortress's highest wall, watching sun rise from the Mediterranean—radiance like baptismal blood, illuminating olive groves and golden wheat fields. Another day began in Sicily, like all others: train, fight, kill, endure beneath blazing sun and dark sword-shadow. I scratched the final line in my old leather journal with charcoal: "In Sicily, the sun rises in blood and sets in blood. But while I breathe, I live—as soldier, demon, or myself, amid this grand conquest."