I wrote a book about the Battle of Hastings. Why the heck did I do that? Hasn’t that story been told a million times?

Look, you have to understand something fundamental. I didn’t just sit down to write another dusty volume for the archives. No. I set out to contend with a story. And stories aren’t just collections of facts; they are the maps we use to navigate the bloody terrain of existence.

We’re talking about 1066. People think they know it, they think it’s just a date, a list of kings, a sequence of tactical maneuvers. But that’s a superficial analysis. What I wanted to capture was the reality of that year. I wanted to tell it in a way that would hit you right in the solar plexus, because if history doesn’t affect you emotionally, you aren’t paying attention to the catastrophe of the human condition.

​The Weight of the Past

Something happened during the writing process that I didn’t fully anticipate. As I looked at that shield wall on a fog-soaked ridge, or watched a nameless woman holding her child and fleeing into the Weald, the story ceased to be “history” in the abstract sense. It became a confrontation with the Eternal Human.

​I thought I was writing about a battle. I wasn’t. I was writing about:

• ​Leadership under the crushing weight of impossible pressure.
• ​The psychological trauma of total cultural collapse.
• ​The stubborn, irreducible nature of identity.
• ​The quiet, heroic resilience of the ordinary person.
• The strange process where enemies are transformed into ancestors.

​The Hinge of Fate

There’s a moment in the book where a Saxon woman watches the Norman fleet emerge from the horizon. Terror is a luxury she can’t afford. She has to act. When I wrote that, it felt like a punch to the gut. It’s the realization that her entire world, everything she valued, every structure of meaning she relied upon, was about to be liquidated.

And that feels familiar, doesn’t it? Cultures colliding, one trying to maintain, the other bent on destroying. It’s the feeling of a world changing faster than our cognitive architecture can keep up with.

The terrifying truth is that 1066 was built on a series of radical contingencies. It didn’t have to go the way it did. If the wind had shifted a week sooner, or if Harold hadn’t been exhausted from the north, we would be living in a completely different reality. That should fill you with a sense of awe, and a healthy dose of fear, at the fragile miracle of the present.

Why This Matters

I wanted to give you something more than a textbook. I wanted you to feel the weight of these symbols:

• ​The Shield Wall isn’t just a formation; it’s a worldview, a commitment to stand with your brothers against the void.
• ​The Arrow isn’t just a weapon; it’s the “Hinge of Fate” that decides the destiny of a million souls.
• ​The Castle isn’t just stone; it’s a psychological verdict rendered upon a conquered people.

What I learned is that civilizations don’t just “fall.” They fuse. They bleed into one another in a messy, tragic, and ultimately creative process. The English didn’t just vanish, and the Normans didn’t remain separate. They became something new.

We are the descendants of a coin toss. We are the beneficiaries of a miracle we didn’t earn. That realization alone should ground you in a sense of gratitude and vigilance. Because, make no mistake: shield walls still break. Cultures still collide. And leadership still demands a price that most aren’t willing to pay.

The only kingdom that cannot be conquered is the kingdom of memory. And we keep that kingdom alive through the stories we have the courage to tell.

I will be back soon with release dates and such, but if any of the above has raised even a glimmer of interest, look into The Threshold of Conquest: William and Harold at Hastings.