The cool night air wrapped Edward like a shroud as he rode hard through the woods, the hooves of his horse muffled by damp leaves and soft earth. The fire of Essex smoldered far behind him, its orange glow bleeding into the horizon like a wound that would never heal. Edward's breath came fast and ragged. There was no time to mourn, no time to think. Survival was the only thought he allowed himself.
Osric's forces would pursue him without rest, and his only hope was to reach the coast before they closed the trap. But every mile stretched Edward thinner—his horse was tiring, and exhaustion gnawed at the edges of his mind. Yet he forced himself forward. His father's final words echoed in his mind: "You must live."
A Fugitive in the Wilderness
For two days, Edward traveled without stopping, cutting across fields and forest paths known only to hunters and outlaws. The land that had once felt like home now seemed like hostile terrain, a landscape crawling with danger. The roads were watched by patrols, villages loyal to Osric stood ready to hand over fugitives for a bag of silver, and the towns had grown strange and cold.
He skirted past a small hamlet at dawn, dismounting to lead his horse through the underbrush. The few coins he carried were useless if the people recognized him. As the heir to Essex, his face was too familiar, and Osric had surely sent word that a traitor was on the run.
The streams Edward crossed felt colder than the bite of winter. His clothes clung to him, wet and muddy, his limbs sluggish with exhaustion. But he could not stop. His mind stayed fixed on one goal: Normandy. If he could escape to Normandy, he could find allies—or at least, safety. Duke William had shown favor to him once. Perhaps he would again.
By the evening of the third day, Edward's horse stumbled on a narrow forest trail, its legs giving way beneath it. Edward rolled free of the saddle as the animal collapsed, wheezing and shivering on the ground. He knelt beside the beast, his hand resting on its sweat-soaked neck.
"You've done enough, old friend," he whispered, his voice hoarse. He didn't have the heart to push the animal further.
Edward removed what supplies he could carry—his sword, a small satchel of bread, and a water skin—and pressed on by foot, moving silently beneath the cover of darkness.
Hunted by Shadows
On the fourth day, Edward heard the sound he had been dreading: the distant baying of hounds. Osric's trackers had found his trail. Panic gripped him, and he quickened his pace, knowing that it was only a matter of time before they were upon him.
He came across a river, its waters swift and icy, and knew it was his only chance to throw off the dogs. Without hesitation, he plunged into the freezing current, gasping as the cold knifed into his bones. The river dragged him downstream, tossing him against rocks and hidden roots, but Edward welcomed the pain. Pain meant he was still alive.
When he finally crawled onto the far bank, shivering and drenched, he heard the barking grow fainter. The hounds had lost his scent—for now.
Edward pushed himself to his feet, every muscle aching, and staggered deeper into the forest. He knew the coast wasn't far. If he could find a smuggler's port, perhaps he could buy passage on a ship bound for Normandy. But the hounds had cost him precious time, and Osric's men would not be far behind.
The Smuggler's Bargain
By nightfall, Edward stumbled into a narrow cove hidden between jagged cliffs. A single ship sat anchored offshore, its sails furled, and a group of rough-looking men huddled around a fire on the beach. Smugglers.
Edward approached cautiously, keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword. The leader of the group, a wiry man with a crooked grin and a knife tucked into his belt, looked up as Edward emerged from the shadows.
"Lost, are we?" the smuggler said with a sneer.
"I need passage to Normandy," Edward said, his voice steady despite the fatigue weighing on him. "I can pay."
The smuggler's grin widened. "Pay, eh? And what makes you think we'd take the likes of you? You've got the look of a fugitive, friend. That makes things… expensive."
Edward's hand tightened on his sword, but he knew he couldn't afford to fight. Not now. He pulled the last of his coins from his satchel and tossed them at the man's feet. The smuggler picked up the pouch, weighing it in his hand.
"This'll get you on the ship," he said with a chuckle. "But if the king's men come sniffing around, you're on your own."
Edward nodded, knowing he had no other choice.
A Treacherous Voyage
The ship set sail under cover of darkness, its sails whispering in the wind as it cut through the cold waters of the Channel. Edward stood at the prow, staring out at the endless black sea. His heart was heavy with grief for the home he had left behind, but somewhere beneath the sorrow was a flicker of hope. He had escaped. He was still alive.
The smugglers were a surly lot, and Edward kept to himself as the ship drifted through mist and rolling waves. The journey was rough, the deck slick with salt and sea spray, but Edward welcomed the discomfort. Every hour that carried him farther from England was an hour closer to safety.
Two days into the voyage, a storm descended on the ship with the fury of a wild beast. Waves crashed over the deck, and the wind howled through the rigging like a chorus of ghosts. The sailors fought to keep the ship afloat, cursing and shouting orders as the vessel pitched and rolled.
Edward clung to the mast, his knuckles white with strain. For a moment, it seemed as though the sea might claim him after all, but the ship held together through the storm, battered but unbroken.
When the storm finally passed, the coast of Normandy appeared on the horizon, pale and distant beneath the morning light.
Arrival in Normandy
The ship docked at a small port south of Caen, where the air smelled of wet earth and pine. Edward disembarked with little more than the clothes on his back, his sword at his side, and the weight of his father's sacrifice pressing down on him.
He knew Normandy was not without its dangers. Duke William's court was a hive of intrigue and ambition, and Edward's presence would not go unnoticed. But he also knew that if he was to reclaim what had been taken from him—if he was to take back England's throne—he needed allies.
As he walked down the narrow dock, his boots squelching against the wet planks, Edward allowed himself a moment of relief. He had escaped.
But his journey was far from over. The real fight was just beginning.