Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  The king continued. “My brother tells me that without you, the battle might have gone very differently.”

  Thurkill bowed his head, his cheeks burning red in consternation. “I did but play my part, Lord, as well as any other man here today.”

  “You are too modest, Thurkill. Without your intervention at the bridge, we may have been stuck there for a good while longer; long enough for their reinforcements to arrive well before we could defeat them. We owe you a great debt of gratitude.”

  Thurkill lifted his eyes to meet Harold’s. He could feel a warm glow spreading through his gut, swelling up to his chest. Then, he dropped to one knee, overwhelmed in the presence of this great war-leader. “It is my honour and privilege to serve you, Lord. My sword is yours for all time.”

  Harold nodded approvingly, raising him back to his feet. “Well, you should have more than just a sword with which to fight for me.” He beckoned Gyrth to come forward. “Thurkill, son of Scalpi, I gift you this war-axe, the very same that was carried by the brave Norseman who held my army at bay for so long on the bridge. May you bear it henceforth as skilfully and as courageously as did our foe.”

  Harold then removed a gold band from his arm and handed that to Thurkill also. “This token I also give you as a mark of my thanks; as reward for a brave warrior who fought well in my service; in recognition of a boy who today became a man. Wear it with pride and give thanks to God each time you look at it and remember this day. In years to come when you are old and sitting by the fire, with grandchildren playing around your knees, you may look at it and recall the day you first went into battle and how you won it in my service.”

  Turning to Scalpi, the king continued. “He is a fine boy, my friend. You have raised him well and should be justly proud of him.”

  Thurkill was dumbfounded. He stood there, mouth agape, hands grasping the two gifts, surrounded by a great gaggle of warriors all staring at him. He knew he had to say something, but the struggle to find the right words was as hard as anything else he had experienced that day. He searched for the inspiration that would save him from appearing an arse in such vaunted company.

  “Lord,” he began nervously. “You honour me greatly with these gifts, more than I could have ever hoped. I give thanks to God that I have survived this day so that I may have the chance once more to prove myself worthy of them in your service.”

  Harold clapped a hand on Thurkill’s shoulder and laughed. “The boy speaks almost as well as he fights. Are you sure he is yours, Scalpi? I don’t ever recall you being so eloquent.”

  Harold then turned to the assembled lords and captains. “Tend to the wounded as best you can and then let us go from this place to Eoforwic where we will celebrate this victory.”

  NINE

  25 September, Eoforwic

  Thurkill stood on the parapet of the wall that surrounded the city of Eoforwic, looking out to the south. The evening was cool after the heat of the day, but a sharp breeze was beginning to blow in from the south west, causing him to draw his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. The sun had long since fallen below the horizon but the sky still clung on to the last vestiges of light as if trying to hold back the all-encompassing darkness that threatened to take over. He was alone with his thoughts, brooding over the events of the day. The guards who patrolled the wall stepped round him, rather than disturb his reverie, aware, perhaps, that this was a man with a troubled soul.

  The reality of the day’s events had finally sunk in. He had killed for the first time and not only that, he had found he was good at it and – in the darkest recesses of his soul – he knew he had enjoyed the feelings of power and invincibility that came with it. But something else in his soul fought against it, was repulsed by what he had become. It was a turmoil of emotions, each fighting for supremacy, and he knew not which would win.

  His stomach cramped once again, his body shuddering as he retched, leaning far out over the wall. It was this, more than anything, that had caused him to step away from the feasting hall. Like a fool, he had gorged himself on choice cuts of pork and beef, washed down with copious amounts of ale from a cup that was refilled after almost every sip – however small – by the legion of waiting churls. Eventually he had stumbled outside claiming the need to take a piss, only to throw up instead, behind a stinking byre. His head swam as he leaned over the parapet, allowing the breeze to cool his forehead. To make matters worse, every muscle ached and throbbed. The exhilaration of the battle had long since worn off as they trudged back to the city and – with each step – he had begun to feel every bruise from all the blows he had received. On top of which, his back, shoulders and all four limbs protested continually at the amount of effort demanded of them. He longed to find a bed to rest but he knew that the feasting would go on for some while yet, not to mention the songs and tales to come after that. Come to think of it, he was surprised he had not already been missed.

  “Hey. What are you doing skulking out here? You’re missing all the fun.”

  Thurkill groaned. He had spoken too soon. Turning towards the sound of the voice, he forced a smile on to his lips to disguise his feelings.

  “Alright, Ubba, can’t a man take a piss in peace?”

  ***

  Inside the hall, the atmosphere was even more oppressive than it had been before. The stench of unwashed bodies combined with the aroma of the rich meat made for a distinctly pungent smell. Furthermore, the heat and smoke from the hearth fire was making it difficult to breathe. Someone had thrown the doors open to allow some fresh air into the place, but it helped only those sat nearby. Thurkill took his seat between Wulfrid and Ubba, the latter still with bloodstained bandage wrapped tightly around his head. Together with Scalpi, they sat at a bench close to Harold’s own table, in recognition of the king’s favour.

  Eventually, the churls began to clear away what remained of the food after which a hush fell over the assembly. Looking up, Thurkill smiled as he saw Eadric the scop take to the floor. Eadric’s reputation as the best storyteller of them all was known in almost every corner of the kingdom. Thurkill had had no idea that he was even here in Eoforwic, but he supposed it made sense as Harold would want news of the great victory to be recorded for just such an occasion as this, and for many years to come.

  Now he stepped into the space before Harold’s table and introduced his latest composition: The Saga of Stamford Bridge. In his hand he held a small lyre with which he introduced each new verse ...

  They stood together, shield overlapping shield,

  The host of Harold, Lord of England and giver of rings.

  No man shrank back from

  The blizzard of spear points.

  No man lost heart in the face of

  the foemen as they drew their swords.

  Thegn did not shrink from thegn

  Nor warrior from warrior.

  As it always was with our fathers

  And their fathers before them.

  The host of England, sons of those Angles and Saxons

  Who came to these shores many centuries ago,

  Stood shoulder to shoulder to defend this land once more.

  With their might, they broke the shieldwall,

  split many a shield asunder.

  With their might, they sent many a Viking to Valhalla,

  to meet with their ancestors.

  And the field flowed with the blood of the enemy,

  As they fell beneath our swords.

  All morning the host of Harold stood and fought,

  Under the glare of the burning sun.

  Then the great king, Harald, known as Hardrada, fell

  His throat pierced by a Saxon arrow.

  But his people did not crumble, nor did they flee, but instead they crossed the Stamford Bridge to fight again.

  But our warriors could not follow, could not reach the enemy with their swords,

  For their way was blocked by an axe-wielding Norseman, charging a toll of blood to cross.

  A
round him lay many a brave warrior fallen,

  hewn down by the giant Norseman.

  Now came to the fight, Thurkill, son of Scalpi.

  As his name was mentioned, a huge cheer went up from the assembled warriors, led by Harold, his brother, Gyrth, and all those sat at the king’s table. Those nearest to the young warrior slapped him on his back and yelled in his ear. All around the hall, men banged their cups and platters against table tops. Thurkill grinned sheepishly, his cheeks burning hotter than the fire. It was some while before the uproar had dimmed to a level that allowed Eadric to continue.

  Now came to the fight, Thurkill, son of Scalpi.

  Carved from oak, with strength and height to match.

  With cunning and guile he speared the axeman,

  His bowels laid waste, no more was he to rise.

  The tale went on for what seemed like an age. Like all good scops, he had the knack of mentioning key moments from the battle and the names of those involved and every time he did, a new round of back-slapping, yelling and banging of tables ensued.

  As the saga went on and on, Thurkill’s could feel his head swimming. He could barely focus on what was going on any more apart, that was, from the dark-haired serving girl who kept refilling his cup. Earlier in the evening he had wondered, idly, whether she was looking at him but he had put it out of his mind; why would she be interested in him? Now, however, he wasn’t so sure. Every time she passed by, she fixed her eyes on his and smiled, her curly dark hair cascading around her shoulders as she looked from side to side. Was it his imagination or was she pressing herself against him more than she needed to when she leaned in to pour the ale? He blamed the drink. In truth, he could not remember ever being this drunk before, and it gave him a courage that otherwise would be lacking. I suppose it’s not every day you fight your first battle and get rewarded personally by the king, he grinned foolishly to himself. Why wouldn’t she be interested in me?

  He shook his head, trying to clear the image from his mind, but he found his eyes following the girl around the hall as she swayed through the crowd carrying a brimming jug full of ale in each hand. As he watched he felt a sharp dig in his ribs. Turning, he saw Ubba grinning stupidly at him, blood still dripping, unnoticed, down his face from beneath his bandage. He looked as if he were even more drunk than Thurkill, if that were possible.

  “You’d like to have her keep you warm on a cold, dark night, eh?” he leered.

  Thurkill felt himself flush as he slurred. “Shut up, Ubba. You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Ubba said nothing but chuckled knowingly as he returned to his ale. Thurkill looked down at his own cup, acutely aware that the other men around him were all nudging each other and pointing at him and the girl. Even his father was smiling at him, seemingly fully aware of the cause of his embarrassment. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

  He had never been with a woman, not properly, despite his age; he was practically a man after all. Well, that was if you didn’t count a quick fumble in the woods with Agnes, a farmer’s daughter, a year or so ago. She had been a few years older than him and definitely much more experienced. He remembered burying his face between her ample breasts as she fiddled with his breeches. To his eternal shame he had spilled his seed almost as soon as she had got her hands around him, her touch alone being enough to make him erupt. To her credit she had not laughed too much, but had instead tried to reassure him as he mumbled a red-faced apology. Even so, he was sure that, for the next few days, he heard the odd snigger from a number of the women folk as he went about his business. He supposed that, despite her promises to the contrary, Agnes had not been able to resist confiding in her friends about the time she tried to bed the lord’s son.

  Remembering the shame of the memory, he didn’t spot that the girl had appeared alongside him once more. Without a word she held out her hand to him, her eyes smiling and encouraging all at once. Almost in a trance, Thurkill took her hand in his, noting how his huge paw enveloped her slender fingers as if they were but tiny twigs. He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, oblivious to the whistles and shouts all around him. Without a word, she guided him deftly between the benches and the prostrate, snoring forms of those who had already succumbed to the ale.

  Outside in the cool air, she led him to a nearby barn. Inside it was warm and cosy with piles of clean straw freshly strewn around the floor. He stood dumbly, his arms hanging uselessly by his side, while – in one smooth movement – she stepped out of her dress to stand naked before him. He stood transfixed, in awe of her beauty, his eyes as round as the moon which gently shone through the gaps in the oak beams. The light playing across the curves of her body, casting shade in placed that served only to accentuate her allure.

  He had faced a horde of Vikings without fear earlier that same day, but the sight of this one beautiful woman had defeated him where they could not. He could neither move nor could he could run away. He must have looked ridiculous; swaying slightly with the effects of the beer, his mouth agape, unable to speak. Sensing his awkwardness, the girl lay down in the straw before reaching up with one arm to draw him down to her. He rolled sideways on to his back as she drew his cloak over them. As he lay there, he felt the weariness flow through his body. Closing his eyes, he gave himself over to her to do with as she willed.

  TEN

  27 September, St Valery, Normandy

  Duke William of Normandy stood on the high bluffs overlooking the town of St Valery, surveying the bustling scene below him. From his vantage point he had a clear view of the weather vane sitting proudly atop the small stone church, the focal point of the town. For the past few weeks that God-damned piece of iron had been stubbornly pointing in the wrong direction. Day after day, the winds had persistently blown in from the north west, keeping his fleet firmly anchored in the harbour. With every day that passed, his frustration had grown and his temper worsened. He knew the autumn storms could hit any day now, making the journey across the channel to England perilous to the point of being foolhardy. It was already late enough in the season to be a significant risk as it was. The distance might only be short but to be caught in the eye of a storm in the middle of the crossing could destroy his plans in one fell swoop. If they did not set sail soon, however, he would have to send the army home until the spring. His coffers were already severely depleted, on top of which he had also had to borrow vast amounts at exorbitant prices to make good the shortfall. God alone knew where he would find the money to do it all again the following year.

  Finally, however, his prayers – and those of the priests in the town – had been answered. He should think so too, as he had paid them enough gold for their efforts, after all. He had emerged from his lodgings that morning to feel a definite change in the breeze. From up here on the bluffs, he was able to confirm his suspicion; the weather vane had changed direction. Now it pointed squarely north, the direction of his prize. Finally, he had his longed-for southerly wind and now, at last, he could put his plans into action.

  The day was bright with just a few fluffy white clouds scudding across an otherwise clear blue sky. It was still quite warm for the time of year, the heat helping to keep the wild autumn weather at bay. He turned his face to the north and raised his right hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun in the east. Though he could not see any distinct detail of England’s coast, there was, undeniably, a dark smudge on the horizon. That must be land, he thought to himself. She awaits me, a few short miles away. The culmination of years of expectation and nine months of solid planning was but a day or two away.

  Smiling grimly, he turned back to the assembled group of knights. “It is time, my friends. Let us make good use of this divine intervention. The Pope himself has blessed our enterprise and now our prayers have been answered.” He pointed at the pale blue banner with the gold cross fluttering in the strengthening breeze, “and now God has smiled on us and sent us this fair wind. To the boats. And thence to England wher
e I shall take my throne from the usurper, that traitor, Harold.”

  “To England!” The men roared their approval.

  As they turned to go, William grabbed the arm of the man holding the staff from which the papal banner fluttered. Richard FitzGilbert was the third son of the ageing Count Gilbert of Clare. With two older brothers before him, he’d had no chance of succeeding his father to the lands and title, Rather, he had been expected to follow his uncle into the church. He would have done so too, but for the fact that he was eminently unsuited to a life of prayer and meditation. After a year or two of apprenticeship in which he spent more time fighting with the other novices than he did praying or learning, he had been kicked out of the abbey of Fecamp. Further ignominy had then been heaped on his young shoulders when his father had cast him out of the household for failing to follow his wishes. He had been left to make his own way in the world as best he could.

  So, he had become a sell-sword, making use of the skills he had learnt as a boy before being packed off to the church. He pledged allegiance to any lord who would pay him well and who gave him opportunity for plunder. Much of the past ten years had been spent fighting for the Norman Hauteville lords in southern Italy, where he had established a fearsome reputation for brutality. He had quickly worked out that the most effective way to win a fight was to make the enemy fear you more than you feared them. For the price of a few well-chosen massacres of villagers who had foolishly resisted his men, the dividends had borne fruit. More often than not, a town would, from that point on, throw open their gates at the mere sight of his banner: a black raven on a yellow background.

  But with the arrival of peace in that region, he had found his services less in demand. He had become restless, eager for new adventure, unwilling to live the sedentary life of a lord of the manor that his paymasters had offered him. He was young; he still needed to fight, to pillage, to win glory and renown. Reluctantly, he had decided to head back north to his homeland where he hoped the pickings might be greater. It was while he had been making a short stay in Rome that Norman envoys had arrived to secure the pope’s backing for what they referred to as a crusade to England. Listening to them as they fervently made their case in front of Pope Alexander, he’d decided there and then to latch on to their coat tails. The promise of conquest and all that came with it was just what he was looking for. It was too great an adventure to resist.