Harold, meanwhile, gathered his captains together at the base of the tree to confer on their plans for the morrow. Wiping the worst of the dirt of the road from his face with the help of some water and the sleeve of his tunic, Harold sighed wearily before opening the debate.
“In truth, I had hoped to find more men here awaiting our arrival; the fyrdsmen of this county at the very least.”
Gyrth nodded. “Indeed, brother. Though I dare say they have been sorely stretched these last days defending against Norman raiding parties. Unless any more arrive during the night, I fear we will have to make do with what we have and trust in God to grant us victory.”
Harold snorted, but not without grim humour. “I would prefer to trust in another thousand or two stout Saxon spearmen. To say nothing of the bowmen who are no doubt still toiling their way down the great north road from Eoforwic. I wish to God that we had more of them in our ranks; without them we have little defence against the Norman archers.”
“We have those who have come from Essex, Berkshire and Kent. They may not be many but they are good men with a good eye. They will not fail you, Lord.”
Harold smiled. “Hush now, Scalpi, I meant no insult to the men here with us. I have faith in each and every one of them. I simply would rather there were more of them to put the outcome of the coming struggle beyond doubt. I know no man here will shirk their duty to defend this land.”
The sound of hooves pounding their way up the slope interrupted the king. In the gathering gloom, it was hard to make out with any certainty who was approaching. Instinctively, Thurkill stepped in front of the king, his hand dropping to his hilt in readiness. Harold, however, rose up and laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Fear not, lad, it’s just two of our scouts returning with news of our enemy. Hail! Egric, Thoppa! What can you tell us of the Norman wastrels?”
The two horsemen didn’t bother dismounting, knowing they would be sent back out in a few moments. Instead, they offered their obeisance by bowing from the saddle. “Lord, the Norman camp lies a few miles south of us as expected, just to the north of Hastings. Our arrival has not gone unnoticed, however, as they have had their own scouts out watching the roads. We saw several riders galloping back with news of our movements.”
Harold nodded in understanding but refused to show any disappointment in case it disheartened the men in earshot. “’Tis of no great import either way. I need to force their hand, to make them attack us, so the sooner they find out the better.”
He then turned to those around him. “We camp here for the night. This ridge is easily defended were the Normans to attack in the night. In the meantime, Egric,” he turned back to the scout, “I pray you keep sharp eyes on our enemy and report as soon as they start to move.”
“Yes, Lord.” With that Egric and Thoppa yanked hard on the reins, wheeled their mounts round and galloped off south, their hooves tearing up great clods of turf and soil as they went.
When they had gone, Gyrth, Leofwine and the other lords gathered round Harold. “Your orders, brother?”
“We rest, Gyrth. Now that our presence is known, I think William will want to attack as soon as possible. He knows that the longer he waits, the stronger we become while his host may begin to suffer from disease and starvation. We will cross swords tomorrow, I’m sure of it. Have every tenth man stay awake, and order the rest to sleep. We will rise at dawn and take a position on this ridge. It bars the route north for William and so he must break us here if he wishes to take my kingdom.”
***
Thurkill awoke while it was still dark. The sound of horses thundering across the grassy slope had him scrambling for his sword. But this was no sudden assault; rather it was the return of the scouts. Egric was exhausted, rolling in his saddle, doing his best to cling on with what strength remained to him. With great effort, he pulled up just shy of the king’s tent, from which Harold was now emerging, already dressed for battle.
“Are the Normans come so soon?”
Breathlessly, the scout fumbled for words. “Lord, the Norman host is moving north towards us. I believe they will be here in a little under two hours.”
“My thanks to you, Egric. It is as I expected. William would have the matter settled sooner rather than later as well. So be it.” Harold then turned to the thegns who had begun to assemble, just as the sky began to lighten in the east. “Lords, rouse your men. Have them take up position on the ridge: huscarls to the front, men of the fyrd behind. Plant my wyvern banner in the centre so that all men may see it and know that there I stand and will do so ‘til I am victorious or dead.
“Let us stand firm atop this ridge and hold our line. We will be a rock, standing for eternity, impervious to the winds and rains that assail it. We will force the Normans to attack us, as they must if they wish to push on from Hastings. But here they will find their path blocked. Here, they will break themselves against our shieldwall, until they are worn out by their endeavours. Then and only then will we rise up and crush them once and for all. Let every lord and captain carry this message to their men. Let no one leave the shieldwall without my express command. If we stand as one, we shall win; if we break apart, then we shall be destroyed.”
***
As Thurkill took his place in the front rank, next to his father and in front of the men from their village, he found his thoughts turning once more to his sister. He had seen her only once since the disbandment of the fyrd the previous month and even then it had only been a short while before they had been forced to leave to fight the Norsemen. It might only have been a few weeks but it felt like an eternity. So much had happened in those days, so much he wanted to tell her about. The fact that he had not been able to go to Haslow while they waited in Lundenburh still weighed heavily on his mind. What if he were to fall today? What if he were never to see her again? What would become of her should neither he or his father make it home? His father saw the look on his face and mistook it for fear of the coming battle.
“Be strong, lad. These Normans do not scare me; I have faced worse than them before and no doubt will again in the future.”
“I was not thinking of them, father. My thoughts instead were for Edith and Aga. I pray to God that we may live to see them again.”
Scalpi nodded empathetically, making the sign of the cross as he did so. “Amen. We will, son, we will. You have not had the last of your aunt’s cooking yet, I’m afraid.”
Despite himself, Thurkill giggled childishly. He had lost count of the number of times he’d ‘accidentally’ dropped some of the most burnt offerings to the floor for the hounds to eat. Sometimes, if the food was too bad, even they would venture no further than sniffing it before wandering back to the fireplace, affronted to be presented with such poor fare.
“Ware! Ware!”
Thoughts of Aga’s culinary shortcomings forgotten, Thurkill looked to where the huscarl a few paces to his left was pointing down the slope. There, in the valley below, where there had been empty fields was now starting to fill with enemy warriors beginning to appear from the tree-line on the opposite side. It seemed to take forever for the whole army to emerge. Every time he thought that there could be no more, another unit issued forth from the woods. Eventually, they stood there, rank upon rank of grey-blue immutable shapes, each clad in full length mail shirts that seemed to shimmer in the early morning sunlight. To Thurkill’s eye, they looked far more numerous and no less menacing than the Norsemen he had faced just two short weeks ago.
They formed up in three distinct ranks. In front were hundreds of lightly armoured archers. After them, came the bulk of the army: the foot soldiers, each wearing a conical helmet with nose-guard and carrying a long-hafted spear and kite-shaped shield that covered their body from shoulder to knee. At the rear, towering above the others on their huge beasts, were the dreaded horsemen.
Finally, the movement ceased. The Normans stood at the base of the slope, silent, as still as statues, as if hoping their appearance alone would be enough to uns
ettle their opponents. But the huscarls massed in the front rank of the shieldwall would not quake in fear; they would not shrink from the fight, nor would they lose heart in the face of the enemy, no matter how numerous or how threatening they seemed. Their courage would give heart to the rest of the Saxon host.
Suddenly, a great shout went up from the Saxon ranks. Harold had appeared atop his own horse. Cantering along the ridge in front of the shieldwall, he was resplendent in burnished armour and crested helmet, its dyed red horse-hair plume flowing behind him in the breeze. He gripped the reins in his left hand while in his right he held a spear from which the red wyvern banner of Wessex fluttered proudly. He rode several hundred paces along the ridge to the far end of their lines before wheeling skilfully and coming back, making sure that everyone could see him. All along the fyrd, men raised their spears and roared defiance in acknowledgement of their king. Finally, he brought his mount to a halt in the centre of the line. Slipping gracefully out of the saddle, he handed the reins to a ceorl who had come forward to lead the beast away. With a final two-handed flourish of the banner, he then planted its shaft’s tapered base deep into the soft earth. Spreading his arms wide, he then bellowed a challenge to the awaiting Normans.
“Here is my banner and here it will stand until every last one of us is dead. If you want it, come and take it!” Then turning to face his huscarls and fyrdsmen, he continued. “Do not fear them, lads, we will triumph here today. Their mounted warriors should not scare you. Our fight is with men, not horses. As our forefathers did before us, we will trust in our own strength. We will stand together and face the enemy. If God wills it that I should die today, I would count no higher honour than to die in battle with you, defending our land so that it may not pass under the yoke of another less worthy.”
With that the shieldwall howled its support before taking three paces forward so that king and banner were protected behind a formidable barrier of grim-faced, axe and spear-wielding warriors determined to defend them to the death.
From his position in the front rank, Thurkill saw he was facing the centre division of the Norman host. Narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sun, he espied – almost directly opposite him – the pale blue banner with a golden cross. He has seen that sigil before, in the hands of the scar-faced Norman knight who had accompanied the monk emissary to the king’s palace at Westminster. Yes, he would swear that the man holding the banner had the same shock of unruly black hair and the same dark skin, tanned by the hot sun of southern climes whence he had hailed. He knew that once battle was joined it would be a confused and brutal melee with men hacking at each other on all sides, but he could not help but wonder, if not hope, that he would find himself face to face with the banner-man at some point. If God saw fit to grant him his wish, he would teach that Norman whoreson what it meant to be a Saxon huscarl.
FIFTEEN
14 October, Senlac Ridge
A grim silence had fallen over the massed ranks of Saxon warriors. Other than the sound of the king’s banner fluttering in the stiff easterly breeze and the occasional cough or sneeze, there was little or nothing to be heard. All along the ridge-line men waited, patient and still, save for those that shuffled from foot to foot to ease the strain on tensed-up muscles. The sun, pale and watery as it was, had risen much further now, casting its weak light across the whole battlefield. After a brief overnight squall, the day was now dry but cold, a cold that would slowly seep into their bones the longer they stood idle; a cold that the autumn sun would do little to alleviate. Though the grass underfoot was still damp from the rain, the ground itself retained the firmness gained over the summer months. It would cause no hindrance to the coming battle.
Harold’s plan relied on the Normans attacking them up the slope, so they were committed to stand and wait. But for how long? The longer Harold’s army stood inactive, the more impatient they would become. Already some of the fyrdsmen to the rear could be heard grumbling. One man not far from Thurkill spoke up for the rest. “This is no way to win a fight, standing here like cattle in a field. Why do we not charge them? We should break them with our shields and spears.”
Others nodded or muttered in agreement. They were not used to waiting for the fight to come to them. This was not the way Saxons gave battle. Harold must have heard the rumblings; such dissent would need to be nipped in the bud else the whole plan would crumble into dust and all would be lost. He strode out in front of the shieldwall where he turned to face them once more.
“Friends, we must stand our ground. To give up this ridge invites disaster; their horsemen would make short work of us in the open. Up here we have the advantage. They will tire their mounts charging up the hill to reach us. Do not worry, the fight will be upon us soon enough and when it is, you will be grateful for this hill, I can promise you that.”
As an afterthought, perhaps conscious of the need to rouse spirits, he added. “Who here was with me at Stamford Bridge?”
Few of the fyrdsmen responded but many of the huscarls raised spear, axe and sword and roared their affirmation ferociously back at the king as if glad to have release for their pent up emotions.
Harold smiled warmly, acknowledging his warriors. “The Norsemen came to our shores in more than three hundred ships, yet we sent them home in only twenty-four, such was the destruction we wrought on them that day. I’m told the Normans have come in over five hundred ships. How many shall they need to return home?”
No one spoke. Harold’s face betrayed a look of desperation, afraid that he was losing them. “What? None of you is brave enough to offer a number? Does not one of you believe that we will destroy the Norman whoresons? How many ships shall we send them home in?”
It was the grumbling solider behind Thurkill who shouted in reply. “None, Lord. Let the bastards swim home!”
Harold grinned both in relief and humour. Order had been restored. All along the line the men laughed as those that had heard the exchange repeated it to those who had not. The sound grew in volume as it spread until it morphed into a fearsome war chant, punctuated by the impact of spear shafts and axe or sword hilts rammed against shields. “Ut! Ut! Ut!”
“Look!” Thurkill shouted to no one in particular. “Something’s happening.”
Sure enough, one of the mounted warriors was making his way forward, the ranks of spearmen and archers parting to let him and his horse through. When he had made his way to the foot of the slope, midway between the two armies, he stopped and dismounted. Drawing his sword from its sheath, he smacked the flat of its blade against the horse’s rump, sending it skittering away back whence it came. Then he turned back to face the Saxon shieldwall. To the astonishment of those watching, he then proceeded to hurl his sword into the air, catching it smoothly by its hilt each time it came back within reach. It was a bizarre display, yet unerringly skilful at the same time. He repeated the trick several times; each time the sword turned end over end multiple times and yet each time he plucked it out of the air with no more care than if it had been a stick. There was no doubting, however incongruous it might appear, that the man was a gifted swordsman.
“What kind of foolhardiness is this?” The tone of Scalpi’s voice belied the respect he felt for the man’s antics. “Is he going to stand there juggling all day like a fool in a king’s court or is he going to try and do some damage with that thing?”
At Scalpi’s prompting, a number of Saxons overcame their sense of awe and began shouting insults and jeers at the juggler. “This display is not worthy of a warrior; this is no more than a trick that you might see in any lord’s hall as part of the entertainment. There is no place for this on the battlefield”.
“Enough of this shit!” A huscarl a few paces to Thurkill’s left had seen enough. Slinging his shield on to his back and hefting his great two-handed war-axe in both hands, he began striding down the slope towards the sword-thrower. The Saxon host fell silent as they watched, intent on the outcome. Everyone was eager to see the prancing, beardless N
orman have his head cleaved for his impudence.
As the huscarl advanced, his adversary appeared to show no signs of concern; rather he continued his antics with his sword, spinning this way and that on his toes as the blade twirled above him. When the Saxon closed to within twenty paces, he began to run, lifting the heavy axe above his head as he did so and roaring a blood-curdling challenge. The blow, if it had landed, would have split any man in two, but it was not to be. At the last moment, the Norman spun a half pace to the left so that the axe swung harmlessly past him. The sheer force behind the blow caused the Saxon to stumble, sealing his fate there and then. His momentum carried him past his foe, causing him to slip on the damp grass as he tried to stop. Effortlessly, the Norman pirouetted on the spot, so fast that he was a blur, before swishing his sword down on the unprotected neck of the warrior. It was over in an instant; the head, now separated from its body, rolled a few feet away towards the cheering archers.
A collective groan rose from the massed Saxon ranks, in stark contrast to the howls of derision coming from the Norman host. First blood to the enemy, mused Thurkill. He hoped it was not an omen. As it was, he did not have time to consider it any further.
“Archers!”
Looking down the hill, Thurkill could see the whole front rank of the Norman army had begun to move. There were hundreds of them, crawling like an inexorable swarm of ants over the land. A knot of fear gripped at his stomach. Whilst he had not faced archers at Stamford Bridge, he knew from time spent hunting in the forests around his village just what damage they could do when they tore into exposed flesh.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 11
