When the dust had settled and the Norman army had disappeared over the horizon, Ælfric and Æthelbert rose gingerly from the pile of corpses where they had been playing dead, and surveyed the carnage around them.
“Well, that’s the end of England as we know it”, said Ælfric glumly. “We’ll become second-class citizens, and these Frog bastards will be lording it over us - not to mention our wives and daughters.”
“I dunno, Alf, it may not be as bad as you think”, said Æthelbert. “I mean, they’re human beings like us, ain’t they? Being ruled by Normans must be better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.”
Ælfric gazed sadly at the body of King Harold, lying in the mud with the shaft of an arrow protruding from his left eye. “You know what, Bert?”, he said. “I reckon you could’ve phrased that a bit more tactfully.”
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