(The previous chapter went through review, and I couldn't change it, so I could only post it. I won't be revising the previous chapter.)
1066, England Island.
A small river flowed through Yorkshire. In the early morning, mist shrouded both banks, leaving visibility poor.
Shouts and the neighing of horses occasionally rose from either bank. As the morning sun climbed higher, the mist gradually dispersed, revealing the army camps on both sides.
The two armies, numbering ten thousand men apiece, had camped on opposite banks with dense forest at their backs. Between them stood only a small wooden bridge wide enough for three men abreast.
The two armies were enemies, each eager to hack the other to death. But the river barred their hatred, and the little wooden bridge could not carry their fury across fast enough. They had spent days fighting over it from opposite banks.
In the camp on the eastern bank, a massive man lay inside one of the largest hide tents.
He was tall and powerfully built, his muscles knotted and his chest covered in thick hair. He looked like a great bear.
He lay on a bed of hides, already wide awake, his keen eyes fixed on the tent roof. There was no telling what occupied his thoughts.
Just then, a warrior lifted the tent flap and called to him:
"Jarl Harald! (Jarl was a Viking title for lords, captains, and military commanders; here, it could be understood as Marshal Harald.) The English are assembling! They're preparing to attack the bridge!"
The massive man named Harald, still lying on his bed of hides, spoke slowly:
"Olaf, do you think I'll find my glorious death?"
The warrior raised his eyebrows.
"Jarl, I don't understand. You're in your prime. Why think about such things?"
Harald fell silent