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About the Author

Calvin Clarke graduated in Science from the Open University

and worked for a pharmaceutical company. He now teaches in a

London school and has coached a girls’ football team. Calvin

enjoys playing guitar and has run a sub-three hour marathon.

Having lost a daughter to a rare lung condition he now campaigns

for the Pulmonary Hypertension Association.

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Dedication

I would like to thank Alison Grist, whose expertise led me in new

directions. For Vincent Mills, who supplied me with enough copy

to keep me going for years. Actually it was years! For Deborah,

John and Naomi, who must have wondered what I’ve been doing

all this time. Thanks for being patient. And for Lucy, whose light

now shines in glory.

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Copyright © Calvin J Clarke (2015)

The right of Calvin J Clarke to be identified as author of this

work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and

78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims

for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British

Library.

ISBN 978 1 78455 844 4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978 1 78455 846 8 (Hardback)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2015)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Printed and bound in Great Britain

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Acknowledgments The commentaries of Kenneth Wolstenholme and Wally Barnes

reproduced here were televised by the British Broadcasting

Corporation.

The lyrics of Pink Floyd, reproduced here, were written by Syd

Barrett, David Gilmour, Nick Mason, Roger Waters and Rick

Wright.

The song World Cup Willie was performed by Lonnie Donegan.

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Time is an illusion

Albert Einstein

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The ancient stone dolmen that stood among the mighty oaks was little Freya’s secret place. She had found it one day when searching the hidden tracks that wound deep into the forest.

That was two years ago. Now she was ten. Freya Aylwin woke early with a sense of adventure.

Leaving her family croft she began scaling the grassy incline that led to the edge of the wood; her long, dark hair caught in the autumn breeze. Black crows flapped into the air sending

raucous screams across the fields. She whistled for Hengist, a huge scraggly wolfhound with wiry grey fur and keen eyes. He came bounding up to her and standing beside her stood

almost to the girl’s shoulders. They raced up the slope towards the summit. All around, the rolling hills of southern England glowed emerald in the first rays of dawn.

As they came to the crest of Senlac Ridge, a small glebe opened up where large standing stones had been erected.

Freya did not understand their purpose but had grown to love the mystery of their existence. A large rectangular slab lay across two chiselled rocks like a giant troll’s table. Freya

hauled herself on top. She laid her face on the rough stone and ran her tiny fingers over the yellow-green lichen that covered its surface.

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Standing tall, she raised her wooden sword above her head and cried: ‘Freya for King and Country.’ Hengist bounced around below, barking and throwing his head in the

air. But then the slim girl realised she was shivering and

found her arms covered in goose pimples. A breeze had picked up. Her eyes sharpened knowing something was about to happen. The very air around her seemed to carry hidden

messages that she could sense. Freya usually felt charged and alive at this moment

playing on the stones in her secret place. Today she felt a

growing suspense as if her destiny was about to be made known. It wasn’t just the wind rustling the branches of the

lofty trees that heightened her awareness. Hengist had also frozen as he looked up quizzically towards Freya.

The world she knew was changing. The sky darkened and

a drizzle started to fall. ‘What is it Hengist?’ she whispered through clenched

teeth. She could hear something, like the sound of a distant

rumble, almost inaudible, rhythmic, the breathing of a sleeping giant stirring from a dream. Freya jumped down and

pushed her way through some undergrowth towards the noise. What she saw next took her breath away.

Spanning the entire length of a wide field, she saw a vast

and mighty army. They carried banners, swords and axes. On their heads they wore leather helmets. Freya’s dark eyes widened, so stunned was she at their number, stretching out of

sight around the foot of Senlac Ridge. Upon a sturdy horse the colour of charcoal sat their commander, his eyes scouring anxiously south towards the distant coast. King Harold!

Little Freya did not know that Harold and his army had been battling invaders to the north of England. If she’d

listened to the stories running rife in the land she would have known that his army had just seen to the Vikings at York, finally quelling them at Stamford Bridge. Then came

unwelcomed news of an imminent attack from across the sea. Why now? the King had said. Is God against me? The return

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march from the north alone had taken almost two weeks and had drained the strength of Harold’s army.

Freya saw him now, sat wearily upon his warhorse with

the flag of St George flying in the wind. She could see a distant gathering from Hastings. The sun glinted on the

Normans' armour as they advanced; the colours of their banners high above, their horses’ hooves clattered as they pounded the stony ground.

From her vantage point Freya watched open-mouthed. She had played war games all the time, much to the dismay of her parents. But here, in her quiet corner of the realm had two

armies come face-to-face ready to do battle. It was beyond her wildest dreams and her sense of excitement grew with every

second. She saw King Harold speaking with his generals and

imagined them discussing battle plans and strategy. She saw

the generals disperse, riding to their battalions, waiting for the King’s command.

Freya knew this was the best day of her life. The

wolfhound placed his head in her lap and whimpered. Freya stroked him tenderly, ‘Don’t be afraid, Hengist.’

She watched the enemy assemble, with archers, foot soldiers, wagons, chariots and cavalry. Stretching field after field to the horizon were contingents of Normans, Bretons and

Flemish. They came like ants marching in procession, like a river flowing through the valley, like a cancer consuming flesh. Finally, the venomous eyes of the foot-soldiers faced

the English. Among the throng, upon his steed, rode William, Duke of Normandy.

In a stand-off they faced each other; hardly a word was

spoken, each gauging the other in psychological foreplay. Then Freya heard a Saxon war cry rise into the sky. The noise

was chilling as they taunted the Normans by beating their shields with swords in a crashing rhythm like thunder.

‘God-e-mite, God-e-mite, God-e-mite,’ they cried. ‘God

Almighty, God Almighty, God Almighty…’ Two furlongs distant, the Normans replied in kind,

beating louder and chanting with equal fervour. And so it

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continued for half-an-hour until a silence came over the place. Then, all that could be heard was the wind sighing in the trees and the crows screeching overhead.

Freya was astonished to see a minstrel in colourful costume appear from among the ranks of Norman archers. He

was a most unlikely warrior, prancing absurdly across the gulf between the two armies. He skipped and danced and played a piccolo as he came closer to the jeering Saxon line. The

English looked incensed, hammering their shields in wild provocation. Then a huge footman leapt forward and with one swift blow felled the tiny jester with his sword. Freya gasped,

her hands automatically reached to cup her pale face. Then a hissing sound came from above and the sky filled with arrows

arcing across the divide. Norman archers had sent their first volley into the phalanx of Saxon soldiers and she witnessed hundreds fall at once.

The battle had begun. From her secret place, Freya watched the two armies

crash like violent waves smashing a rocky shore. She heard

cries of agony, the metallic clash and clang of sword upon sword and the drumming hooves of Norman cavalry. To her

growing distress she saw the killing on both sides. A bloody ooze began to carpet the battlefield. She heard the generals marshalling the troops with huge bear-like voices. And behind

the rear-guard, upon his grey horse, she saw King Harold, watching and waiting. England’s future lay on his shoulders.

Then, amidst the height of battle, Freya sensed something

close behind her. She heard a twig crack, crushed under a heavy foot. She spun round with her wooden sword out ready to defend herself. Two men stood there, dressed in long black

coats. One held a staff, his dark tangled hair fell over his shoulders; Freya immediately thought of Merlin the Magician.

Her heart thumped. What did they want? Freya could see her hands shaking in front of her. Has my time come?

‘Young lady,’ said the one with the staff, his voice strong

and appealing, ‘we need your help. There’s a mission only you can do. It will change the course of history. Come with us if you have the courage.’

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Two hours after midday, on the 14th October 1066, there was a lull in the Battle of Hastings.

Both armies retreated to a distance of a furlong apart,

carrying their dead and injured with them. They took up station facing each other; a wearied silence filling the void.

Then, from a clearing in the nearby wood, came a noise no soldier had heard before. What seemed to be some kind of chariot came speeding into view and moved into the gulf

separating the Norman and Saxon lines. Without the need for strong horses it moved with ease across the rutted ground. The surface of the vehicle was a dull grey and green which caused

it to blend into the forest from where it had appeared. It rode over divots and furrows on its four black wheels with its

engine roaring like a lion. From the front there came two lights so bright that no one had seen such radiance in daytime, save from the sun itself. Both Norman and English looked on

in disbelief. ‘Elijah comes to save us!’ one Saxon yelled. The Land Rover came to a halt, the doors opened and two

men, a girl and a wolfhound stepped onto the pitted battlefield. They stood for a moment and surveyed the vast

assembly that encompassed them. Freya took a deep breath and shivered.

‘Men of England,’ shouted the tallest, propping himself

against his long staff, ‘Men of Normandy, now is the time to put aside war. Now is the time to fight, but not to kill. We are here to show you a new way of combat. We know of a new

contest, a new battlefield. Watch and learn. Observez et apprenez.’

The two men threw their black coats to the ground,

marched away from the Land Rover and took up a position midway between both camps. Freya stood behind them,

waiting to take part in the new game they had taught her. One of the men let a round object fall to the ground, it

bounced and he trapped it under his boot. The warriors on

both sides were impassive, wondering what was about to happen. Then the two men began kicking the ball to each other while Freya ran between them. She ran to one man and

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then to the other. She seemed to be following the ball in vain trying to get it. They played the ball higher and it went over Freya’s head. The men headed the ball over her, then they

began running and passing it to each other along the ground. With one mighty effort, Freya lunged and came down with her

feet on the ball. It was a perfect tackle; she got the ball and knocked the man over. Freya tumbled, rose to her feet and found she had the ball to herself. She stood there with one foot

on it, panting heavily, while the tall man got to his feet. That was amazing! Freya broke into a huge relieved smile.

Both Normans and the Saxons suddenly erupted into a

broadside of spontaneous cheering. They crashed their swords against their shields and hoisted their banners high. Drums

began to thump out a steady beat. Boom, boom – boom – boom. Boom, boom – boom – boom. Freya turned to each side and waved. As the celebration began to wane, one of the men,

wiping the sweat from his brow, raised his voice. ‘This is the new battle – the new way to fight. You will

challenge each other in this new way. In this warfare no life

will be lost. You need no weapon, except the ability and strength God has given you. It requires skill and tactics to

outwit the enemy. Those who work together will win. Freya will come and choose ten good men from England and ten good men from Gaul to take up the challenge.’ He turned to

Freya, a tiny and vulnerable figure amongst so many mighty men, ‘This is your moment.’

Freya composed herself then crossed the gulf and one by

one picked out the strong men of her choosing, looking deep into their eyes as she did so. They dropped their weapons and came forward to face those whom they’d previously wanted to

destroy. And so it started. Freya stood between them and threw the

ball high into the air, retreating quickly. It fell and bounced off a mound before twenty ferocious men piled in; there came mayhem and a crunching of limbs. Bodies fell, men were

pushed, expletives uttered and punches thrown. But then, from out of the scrum, the ball fell loose and a Norman soldier chased it down and stopped it with his boot. He gave a mighty

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kick sending the ball to a team mate waving forty yards away. It was the first pass ever made in a competitive game of football. Chanting rose from both sides.

This was just the beginning. ‘Freya, our job here is done. It’s time for us to go. You

have done well.’ Both Normans and Saxons were too engrossed in the

contest to see the outsiders leave. The Land Rover climbed the

incline as far as the edge of the forest; the camouflage dissolving it against the backdrop of trees. They turned the off-roader around to get one last look – but it wasn’t the

football that caught their attention – it was something else entirely.

‘What the shit is that?’ Freya watched the tall man point towards something

gleaming and hanging motionless in the sky. Its brightness

cast a glow across the surrounding fields. ‘Fuck knows!’ She frowned. How strange they seem to speak. Not even

Uncle Wulfgrim says such things. Freya followed their line of sight to where both men were

looking. She squinted and held her pale hand over her eyes to shield the glare.

‘The sun has sent a messenger,’ she gasped.

‘Quick,’ one of the men yelled. ‘Get the recording gear – this is what we came for!’

‘We’ve gotta leave you baby.’ The man with the long hair

helped Freya from the Land Rover. He laid his hand on her slender shoulder as Hengist bounded out.

The two men looked to the sky and watched in

amazement as the apparition descended. ‘Oh my God! How could anyone have guessed?’

‘Yeah, now we know,’ the other replied. ‘End of story.’ ‘Nah, this is where it begins.’ Seconds later Freya watched the four-by-four lurch away

over the uneven ground until it disappeared around the curve of the hill.

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She had only one thing on her mind. Without a moment’s thought Freya raced to her secret place with Hengist by her side. There she could watch the battle unfold. She came to the

opening, and hauling herself onto the ancient stone dolmen, stood up to see.

Suddenly she was engulfed with a light. Freya felt bathed in a pure white iridescence but it did not harm her vision. She blinked and the instant Freya opened her eyes she found she

was surrounded. Men? No not men, she thought, how could they be so tall.

Freya was mesmerised by their dark blue eyes and the serenity

of their persona. They shone and their countenance was glorious. Their bright raiment fell in folds to the earth below.

Their hair was golden-brown and covered their broad shoulders. No imperfection could be found in their faces. In their presence, Freya felt no fear. The one whose gaze was

fixed upon the young girl carried something in his hands. He spoke with words so gentle and yet with such power that it seemed to Freya she heard his voice inside her head.

‘Freya you have shown great courage and passed the test. You have much more to offer. Your valour will again be

tested. I have brought you this trophy which you have seen before. Take it to the King. It will be a treasure to be kept secret. But you Freya have a greater calling and in time you

will be an envoy to one who is yet to come.’ He held the object out in front of her and she took it from

his hands. Freya glanced down at the black ball she was

holding and when she looked up into the darkened air she found she was all alone.