“Shields up!” His father’s booming voice brought him back to the moment. The cry was echoed all along the line as captain after captain bellowed the warning to their warriors. All around him men raised their round wooden shields, angled as best they could to provide most protection against the imminent swarm of deadly projectiles. No sooner had they done so than the first shafts began to fly. Moments later, the air was filled with the sound of arrow heads thudding into wood, interspersed every now and then with a terrifying scream as one of the missiles found its inevitable way through the defences.
Thurkill had no idea how long it went on for, nor how many arrows flew at them. It seemed to go on for ever. All he could do – all that any of them could do - was crouch beneath his shield and pray to God and all his saints that none managed to find a piece of him. He lost count of how many times he felt his shield take an arrow head. It was at least six, perhaps as many as ten. Glancing to his right, he caught his father’s eye. He was grinning maniacally, teeth bared and eyes wide. He became aware of his son looking at him and began to laugh grimly.
“This is a different kind of rain than we’re used to at this time of year, eh?”
Despite his fear, Thurkill laughed and took heart. He could endure the storm; his shield was sturdy, made of good solid willow. It could not be pierced. It was well positioned, overlapping tightly with those next to him. This storm could not go on for ever; they would run out of arrows eventually. In fact, no sooner had the thought entered his mind than the barrage ceased.
Slowly, one by one, the warriors lowered their shields and stared around them. Thankfully, it seemed that surprisingly few hits had been sustained; here and there a body lay, transfixed by one or more of the cruel shafts but, on the whole, the Saxons had emerged largely unscathed. Several of the men began to laugh, pouring scorn on the archers for their poor aim. One spearman even ran forward a few paces, turned and dropped his trousers, waving his bare arse at the enemy. Thurkill smiled. Should he survive the day, that man was assured legendary status, his exploits to be captured in verse to be celebrated round the hearth fires down the generations.
He felt a surge of confidence. The earlier duel was forgotten and they had come through a hail of arrows with few deaths and not many more wounded and they were already being dragged or led away to the rear to be tended to. Here and there one or two refused to go, claiming their injuries were of no matter. If they could still wield spear and shield they were allowed to stay, otherwise they were bundled away. The shieldwall could not allow itself to be broken for the sake of a man too weak to play his part. Even so, Thurkill found himself smiling; perhaps this would not be as hard as he had feared.
Scalpi saw him smirking and cut him down. “Don’t get too cocky, lad. The rest of the day will not be so easy.”
“How so, father?”
“They were shooting uphill; with our narrow ranks, we present but a small target. I fear they were just testing us, seeing how we would react; testing our mettle as it were. There’s more to come, and soon. Yes, look. Now the infantry are on the move. Quick!” Scalpi shouted to those around him. “Clear the arrows from your shields as best you can and make ready.”
Following his father’s advice, Thurkill drew his seax and used it to hack the arrow shafts away as close to their heads as possible. He did not have time to try and prise the points from the thick wood; they were too deeply embedded. When he was done, his shield resembled a hedgehog with ten or so jagged spikes sticking out.
He was not a moment too soon; the Norman infantry was already halfway up the slope. They came on in a solid mass, bristling with spear heads pointing at the Saxons. They made no sound as they came, just the rhythmic thud of hundreds of boots hitting the ground simultaneously. It was an inspiring if not fearsome sight. Rank after rank of identically dressed soldiers, each covered from neck to knee with tapered shields. Like the Saxons, those shields bore many patterns, presumably marking out the lords for whom they fought.
Everywhere, the defenders braced themselves to face the onslaught. In their favour, they were still fresh, having so far faced nothing more taxing than an arrow storm, while the Normans could already be seen to be puffing from the effort of toiling up the slope to reach them. When they were no more than fifty paces away, Thurkill heard Harold give the order for missiles to be thrown. It was the signal for those fyrdsmen to the rear who held javelins or slings, together with the few archers that had come to the battle, to unleash their deadly cargo.
Of itself it was not enough to stop them, but it did cause a break in the enemy’s cohesion. Men fell, not in great numbers, but enough to create a few gaps in what had before been a solid mass. Others found themselves encumbered by javelins embedded in their shields; giving them a choice of dropping the shield to continue or pulling back out of the line while they tried to dislodge the missile from where it had stuck fast.
The remaining soldiers continued their uphill march, closing the gaps as they came. There were still many hundreds of them advancing on a wide front, several ranks deep, spears aimed menacingly at the Saxon shieldwall. At no more than twenty paces distant, the line halted. As one, each man planted his spear in the ground, point first, before taking a lighter throwing-spear from his other hand where it had been held next to the shield grip. The resulting volley of missiles, even thrown at such short range, did little more damage than the archers had. Most clattered harmlessly off the shields. A few found their mark, and even fewer of those caused fatal wounds. Nonetheless, if the Normans were disheartened they did not show it; instead they picked up their spears and resumed their steady march.
“Brace!” Saxon captains yelled to their men to be ready to receive the attack. It was not necessary, though, as every man knew what was coming. Harold had told them that they needed to stay firm in defence. Keep the shieldwall intact and they won’t break us, he had said. Now was the first real test. Could they resist these grim Norman foot soldiers? He felt the familiar churning sensation in his guts and prayed he would not disgrace himself in front of his comrades.
An image of Edith came unbidden into his mind. He wondered what she was doing right now and if she knew just what he was facing at that moment. She was agonisingly close; probably no more than a day or two’s ride. Defeat could not be an option, if only to ensure her safety. Lose and the Normans would be free to rape and pillage across whole swathes of the land and their village would be one of the first they came to, especially if they rode to Canterbury, one of the biggest cities in the south.
The impact, when it came, shook him to the core. Standing in the front rank with the other huscarls, he bore the withering brunt of it. Even with his legs braced and his knees slightly bent, it still almost knocked him off his feet. If it hadn’t been for the press of bodies from behind, doing their best to support the huscarls to their front, he probably would have fallen.
The strain was unbelievable. In front of him, Normans pushed forward in rank after rank, while behind him, the fyrd desperately strove to keep the integrity of the shieldwall. Thurkill found he could hardly move. His shield was locked in position, providing welcome protection, but his right arm was pinned to his side, meaning he could not bring his sword to bear in any way. Inches from his face was the snarling, sweating face of a Norman, contorted in rage but similarly impotent due to the huge numbers pressing in from behind him. Thurkill felt a wave of panic flood through him; he was defenceless, at the mercy of his enemies. At any moment someone might thrust a spear into his face and end his battle before it had even begun. Time seemed to slow down as he struggled helplessly to free his limbs sufficiently to enable him to fight. He could feel his heart racing, his breath coming in short, fevered gasps, the heat from the mass of shoving men causing rivers of sweat to cascade down his head and torso. Frantically, his mind raced for a solution. Only one answer came to mind.
With a roar that shocked him in its intensity he pulled his head back before then ramming it forward, as hard as he could in that co
nfined space, squarely into the face of his opponent. Although well protected by his helmet, the force of the blow nevertheless shattered the man’s nose and knocked the sense from him. Blood flowed unchecked as the man stood there, stupefied, unable to fall to the ground, being held in place by his comrades.
Eventually the man slid down, his legs unable to support his weight any longer. Thurkill took half a step forward into the small space that now presented itself, making sure as he did so that he stamped down hard on the man’s exposed neck. He didn’t want him regaining consciousness and slipping a knife into his balls as he stood over him. Although still surrounded on all sides, the sudden feeling of that little bit of freedom was almost intoxicating. Finally, he could now flex his sword arm, feeling life flow back into the muscles. His left shoulder ached from where it had been holding the shield for too long in an unnatural position, but he knew it would ease as he began the grisly business of killing Normans.
He took a moment to take stock. As far as he could see, the shieldwall was holding firm, despite the horde of howling Norman foot soldiers hammering at it on all sides. Everywhere he looked he could see swords crashing against shields and spears being thrust through gaps, looking for exposed flesh. Nonetheless the Saxons were weathering the storm well. The height of the ridge, combined with the fact that they had not had to exhaust themselves toiling up the slope, gave them the advantage as Harold had promised. To make matters worse for the enemy, the ground was still slick, making it difficult for them to find a solid footing.
“Ware!” A shout immediately to his right yanked him back to the moment. He sensed rather than saw a blur of movement to his front and managed to jerk his head to one side just in time. It was only a small movement but it probably saved his life. The spear point which had been aimed at his eye instead scored a line across his cheek. Even the adrenaline coursing through his veins was not enough to mask the intense burning sensation he felt as his cheek open and blood pour down his face on to his mail shirt. Damn you, boy, he cursed himself. Pay attention or you’ll get yourself killed.
Recovering from the shock, Thurkill was first to react. He did not have time to swing his sword so instead he punched the cross-piece into the face of his attacker followed by a brutal kick which connected with the man’s kneecap with a satisfying crunch. The man next to him who had yelled the warning finished matters with a spear-thrust into his neck. Thurkill nodded his thanks; his grinning, bloodied face must have made him look almost satanic. That had been close and the lesson was not lost on him. He was not invincible; he would have to be vigilant at all times lest the next blow find its target.
The fighting went on in the same pattern for some time, as the two forces thrust against each other, trying to find the crucial breakthrough. There was none to be found though so the Normans were slowly wearing themselves out against the impenetrable mass that was the Saxon shieldwall. There was no way through. Even when they did manage to bring a man down, his place was quickly taken and the gap shored up.
After what seemed an interminable age, Thurkill became aware that, somewhere in the distance, a horn was blowing. Short blasts in groups of three, repeated over and over. Before he could work out what it might mean, the Norman warriors facing him started to pull back. There was no panic; they had not been routed. Rather it was a measured and steady withdrawal, step by slow step, never once taking their eyes off the Saxon host which remained rooted to the spot on top of the ridge. True to their word to Harold, the Saxons remained static and impassive, watching the retreating Normans and making no effort to follow.
Here and there a man stepped forward two or three paces to administer a killing blow to a wounded foe, while others helped drag their own dead or dying away from the fray. Otherwise, the rest stood where they were, silent, unmoving, watching the Normans go. No one was under any illusion that the battle might be over. This was simply the end of the opening chapter. They had survived a storm of arrows and withstood a fearsome attack by the foot soldiers, but Thurkill could not help but think those first forays had been intended to soften them up for the main event. Next they would surely face the mounted knights and only God could save them then.
SIXTEEN
14 October, Senlac Ridge
The sound was unbelievable, like a thousand thunderstorms rolled into one. He had never heard, let alone seen, so many horses in one place; the effect was mesmerising if not terrifying. Hundreds upon hundreds of mounted warriors in tightly packed ranks raked the flanks of their horses to force them up the slope. They needed little or no encouragement, though, for their blood was up; the sights, sounds and smells of the carnage making sure of that. All the riders had to do was point their heads up the hill and hold on tight to the reins as their beasts did the rest.
“Steady, steady! Hold the line and they’ll not break us. You’ll see. You have my word on it.”
The sound of Harold’s strident voice carried over the drumming of the horses’ hooves and was echoed every few paces by each lord and captain. Even so, a good number of the younger warriors were still jittery, glancing around nervously as if looking to escape. Very few, if any, of them would have faced such an onslaught before and none of them knew what to expect.
The noise level was growing in horrifying intensity as the ground trembled beneath their feet with the weight of so many horses thudding across the turf. Men made the sign of the cross; prayers and supplications were offered up to all known deities, Christian and otherwise. But the fear never became a panic; the huscarls in the front ranks saw to that. Their courage was enough for those behind. Even Thurkill, as young and experienced as he was, was determined not disgrace himself or his father. No tales would ever be told about the cowardice of great Scalpi’s son; that would never happen. Instead, he set his jaw as firmly as he could and ignored the voice in his head that was screaming at him to run. He took a tighter grip of both his sword and his shield and roared his defiance along with all those around him. If this was to be the end, then he would face it with his head held high.
But then the pendulum of chance began to swing back in the Saxons’ favour. On flat ground with no obstructions, the Norman cavalry could have charged straight through the shieldwall, breaking it as easily as if it had been made of twigs. But their impatience to reach the enemy was their undoing. So eager were they that they failed to wait for the retiring foot soldiers to clear their path. They began to weave and swerve in all directions to avoid ploughing into their own men. Some of the more ruthless paid no heed to the shouts and warnings and urged their mounts forward anyway, trampling several who had the misfortune to be in their way. Either way the damage was done; the cohesion of the charge was irretrievably lost. What had been begun as a single, solid mass of men and horses broke down into smaller groups, each competing with those around them to reach the top of the ridge. By the time they reached the top, their impetus had been reduced to almost nothing.
As Thurkill watched the debacle unfolding before him, he nodded appreciatively; the battle ground had been well chosen. They might be able to hold them after all. Though he had not experienced horse warriors before, he could see as well as anyone that they relied on momentum and weight to do the most damage. Without them, their effectiveness was much reduced. They still posed a significant threat, it had to be said, but a lot of the fear and menace they had posed had evaporated. Instead of crushing the shieldwall with one massive assault, they were now reduced to riding along the length of the ridge looking for weak points to exploit. Every so often, a man would stand in his stirrups and thrust his spear point through a gap between the shields, and often to good effect. The weapons they carried were longer than the infantry spear and, with the height gained from standing out of the saddle, the extra reach enabled them to pick off anyone stupid enough to leave himself exposed, while keeping the knight well out of reach of the defenders’ spears.
The damage they were able to inflict was limited, though, much less than Duke William must have hoped. The terrain a
nd the knights’ own impatience had saved the Saxons up on the ridge. Though several huscarls and fyrdsmen had fallen, transfixed by Norman spears, the shields remained unbroken. And the damage was not all one-sided either; whenever one of the knights became isolated from his comrades, he was immediately vulnerable to attack. Seeing just such an opportunity, a huscarl to Thurkill’s right dropped his spear and ran forward, drawing his deadly seax as he went. Cleverly, he darted round to the back of the horse, out of the eye-line of its rider, where he then slashed the sharp blade across the horse’s hamstrings. The animal whinnied in pain as its ruined back legs crumpled beneath the combined weight of horse and rider. The knight had no time to react, taken completely by surprise and finding himself pinned to the ground, his right leg crushed under the horse’s bloodied flank. Wasting no time, the huscarl plunged his seax deep into the man’s neck, his blood mixing with that of his wounded mount. It was all over in a matter of moments; the Saxon was back in line, spear and shield at the ready once more. It was a pattern that was repeated at intervals all along the ridge.
Suddenly a great shout went up from the Normans. Thurkill had no time to turn to see what was happening, though, as his section of the wall was, at that moment, hard pressed. A group of twenty or more horsemen had surged forward, searching for openings, thrusting their spears forward as they came. They had already felled the man immediately to his left, his eyes pleading with Thurkill as he fell, the life literally draining from him before Thurkill’s eyes. He was helpless though; he could offer no succour as he had to keep his own position in the wall lest the Normans sought to press home their advantage before the man’s place could be taken by someone from the next rank. Before that could happen, however, to Thurkill’s surprise, the horsemen began to yank hard on their reins, turning their mounts away back down the slope, trampling over the dead and wounded, comrade and foe alike, in their haste.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 12
