Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  Thurkill felt a burst of hope, adrenaline coursing through his veins. “They’re breaking. They’re running”

  “Stand! Stand, I say!” His father’s voice roared in his ears, halting him in his tracks along with those around him who had been similarly tempted.

  “Your king ordered you to stand here, no matter what. And here we stand until he says otherwise. If that means you die here on this spot, then so be it, but you must not go chasing after the enemy.”

  Thurkill knew his father was right. As much as he wanted to take the fight to the Normans, they had to hold their ground. The urge to run after the retreating Normans was strong, though. In every other battle he had heard of, this was the time to seize victory; now was the time to charge down the slope, hacking the fleeing enemy to pieces. Why else would their foe be running if they were not beaten? Not willing to disobey his father, though, Thurkill remained rooted to the spot.

  “But what was that shout for, father? Are they not fleeing before our spears?”

  “God alone knows? I can make no sense of their goddamned foreign tongue. Probably just an order to regroup for a new attack.”

  “It sounded more than that, though. It sounded panicked to my ears.”

  “And what would you know of such things, lad? You’re still wet behind the ears.”

  A huscarl further down the line was listening to their conversation. “No, he’s right, Lord. It’s the Bastard; he’s fallen. I swear it.”

  Without hesitation, Scalpi rounded on the man. “How in God’s name do you know that? Speak, man. I will not have wild rumour spread through these ranks.”

  “My father spent time in Normandy with the old King Edward. He learnt their tongue and passed some of it on to me. I heard the words duke and dead, clear as day. I swear it on my honour.”

  “Look, father, it’s true.” Thurkill pointed excitedly down the slope. The horsemen, having retreated to the bottom of the slope, were now milling about in confusion, as if leaderless and uncertain of what to do. The whole Norman host appeared to have lost its shape. No one seemed to be in charge, no orders were being given; the whole thing was a mess even to Thurkill’s untrained eye.

  “We should attack now, while they are in disarray.” The man who had proclaimed the Duke’s death opined.

  Scalpi was quick to shut down such talk, though he too could see the sense in it. “Hold fast there. We wait. We have our orders to hold this position and until that changes, we go nowhere.”

  Just at that moment, however, Harold himself strode forward. “Now is our time, lads! The enemy stands before us in confusion and despair. They have broken themselves against our shieldwall like so much rain off a swan’s back. Gyrth! Leofwine! Take the right wing and advance. Press home our advantage while they mill about like virgin maids at a harvest feast.”

  Euphoric at being released from the frustration of defending the ridge, the two brothers raced away to do the king’s bidding. Within moments the sound of horns reached their ears as the whole of the right flank – about a third of the Saxon army – detached itself from the main body and began marching down the slope towards the enemy. Their discipline was a marvel. This was no wild, devil-may-care charge. They strode with purpose, chanting as they went, beating their sword hilts and spear hafts against the inside of their shields. Thurkill watched in awe and not a little jealousy. “There must be the best part of two thousand men there”, he said aloud to no one in particular. “They’re going to send them squealing like frightened pigs back to their ships.”

  Within moments, however, he saw just how dreadfully wrong he was as the situation changed with disastrous results for the Saxons. Back at the base of the ridge, a knight rode out in front of the disorganised Norman host and removed his helmet. Standing in his stirrups he began shouting and gesturing with his sword, desperately trying to attract the attention of all those around him. So loud was his voice that the words carried all the way to where the Saxons stood at the top of the ridge. Thurkill could not understand them but he did recognise the name, William. His heart sank. It had been too good to be true after all; the Duke lived. Next to him, Thurkill could also see the papal banner, still held by the same dark-haired knight that had come to Harold’s hall in Westminster with the monk. He was waving the banner from side to side as high as he could, helping to calm their panicked host.

  Scalpi took two steps forward, a look of fear in his eyes. “The Bastard lives. Even now his warriors are reforming, confident once more. Our men must retreat before it’s too late, else they will be caught in the open and massacred where they stand.”

  It was true. Already, a large number of mounted warriors had formed up behind the duke who had now replaced his helmet and was pointing up the hill with his sword. And then the horsemen were coming again. This time they did not have the infantry in their way and they had a clear target to aim for that was no longer on top of the ridge.

  From his vantage point, Thurkill could see the danger only too clearly. His father was right. Instead of heading for the centre of the line, the huge body of knights was aiming off to the left where their right flank now stood exposed, more than halfway down the slope. The Saxons had halted, appalled by the sight of the oncoming cavalry. Thurkill could see Gyrth and Leofwine frantically shouting instructions, trying to get their men to turn back whence they had come. A good number had begun to wheel but it was excruciatingly slow. And in his heart, he knew it was too late for them.

  The Normans hit them before they had even covered half the ground. And with their backs to their attackers, they were defenceless. The horsemen swept right through their haphazard ranks, stabbing and hacking at the exposed necks, heads and backs as they went. It was a slaughter. Man after man went down; bodies impaled on spear points, limbs and heads severed from bodies. All around Thurkill, men – himself included – howled in impotent rage. They were desperate to go to their aid but Harold refused to allow them. He knew that were they to break ranks too, all would be lost. Even so, the sight of so many of their comrades being so cruelly killed was more than many could bear; several looked away or cast their eyes down to the ground, unable to watch the unfolding tragedy. It was as bad, if not worse, for Harold; not only were his precious warriors being hacked to pieces, but two of his brothers were in the thick of it, in mortal danger.

  Thurkill could not drag his eyes away, though. He forced himself to watch as the devastating attack played out. The impact of the charge had split the fleeing Saxons into two almost equal parts. For those nearest the king’s position, there was a chance for deliverance and many of them were able to regain the ridge and the safety of the shieldwall. For the others, however, there could be no salvation. Cut off from the rest of the army, their fate had been sealed and most were cut down where they stood. A few – probably no more than two hundred, with Gyrth and Leofwine among them – fought their way to a small hillock not far to the west. There they readied themselves to make a last stand, their efforts at forming a solid shieldwall hampered by the numerous gorse bushes that were scattered across the summit.

  They were surrounded and vastly outnumbered. Again and again the Normans charged the ever-dwindling defenders, each attack accounting for more and more of the terrified Saxons. In the middle of the encircled group, Thurkill could still see the two brothers, fighting bravely and shouting at those around them to hold the line and keep their shields up. They must have known it was futile, that there was no hope of rescue, but there would be no thought of surrender.

  Then, inevitably, Gyrth fell, pierced through by a javelin thrown from a distance of no more than ten paces by one of the circling knights. He pulled at the shaft, determined to fight on, but as the point came free, great gouts of blood gushed forth from a ruined artery. He sank to his knees, unable to support his own weight any longer.

  Leofwine, seeing what had happened, rushed to his brother’s side, howling in anguish. There was nothing he could do except cradle his brother’s head as he lay dying. All around th
em, their huscarls continued to fight on, defending the body of their fallen leader as best they could. It must have been clear to all that death was upon them, but that did nothing to slacken their resolve. They hacked and parried in all directions, making the Normans pay dearly for every life they took. But every charge by the Normans reduced the perimeter of their shieldwall that little bit more. Huge gaps began to appear in the wall; there were no longer sufficient uninjured warriors to plug them. Realising that all was now lost, Leofwine roared in anger, grabbed a discarded two-handed battle-axe and ran wildly towards the nearest knot of horsemen. It was a brave but useless show of defiance and he was cut down before he had managed a dozen paces, assailed on all sides by sword and spear points. Blows rained down on him long after he must have been dead, causing fury among the surviving warriors.

  With their leaders gone, the end came swiftly for those that remained. Though they gave a good account of themselves, they could do nothing to prevent the inevitable. Again and again, the horsemen wheeled and turned, hacking down on all sides until not a single man was left standing. The whole thing could not have lasted long, but for the rest of the host watching helplessly on the ridge, it had seemed an eternity. Harold had maintained a stoic serenity throughout, despite watching his own kin dying before his eyes whilst knowing that it had been his bold order that had sent them to their death.

  Thurkill could only imagine the pain he must be feeling. He had lost three brothers in as many weeks. Even though Tostig had stood against him at Stamford Bridge, he was still family. They had grown up together, played together, fought together, laughed together. Those memories could not be discarded easily. With tears in his eyes, Thurkill found himself thinking of his own family. He knew to lose them would be devastating. He knew he had to survive, if only for their sake, but he could do nothing but trust in God to deliver him safely through to the end of the battle. But hope for Harold and the Saxon host was fading.

  SEVENTEEN

  Afternoon, 14 October, Senlac Ridge

  An uneasy lull fell over the battlefield in the aftermath of the slaughter. It was as if both sides had somehow agreed to pause the hostilities, perhaps shocked by their intensity. The horsemen had swept away back down the hill, rejoicing in their victory as they went. Behind them they left only the dead and dying. The screams and moans of the wounded carried across the wind to where Harold stood with the remainder of his army. Though they were much weakened their numbers were still formidable and, for the most part, largely untested.

  Perhaps conscious that his followers still looked to him for leadership and direction, Harold refused to show any emotion at the reverse. To appear downcast or defeatist now would, Thurkill surmised, send shockwaves through the ranks, stripping the men of their courage and their will to fight. Appearing as calm as he could, Harold called for Scalpi to attend him.

  “Take as many men as you need and bring my brothers back to me. I would have them here beside me where we may keep them safe from any further despoiling.”

  Scalpi nodded wordlessly and trotted away, grabbing Thurkill and a dozen or so other huscarls as he went. It did not take long to reach the bodies, but once there, they had to slow down to be sure not to tread on the fallen. So many were they and so close knit had been their last stand, that there was little space to step between the bodies. It was a scene of devastation far worse than anything Thurkill had seen before. Steeling themselves to deal with the horrific sights before them, the small group of men soon located the bodies of Gyrth and Leofwine. They were well known to all and their features were mercifully unblemished, making their identification a matter of no difficulty.

  Their quarry found, Scalpi urged the group into action. There was no way of knowing how soon the Normans might resume their attack. “Grab a couple of those long shields, lads; use them to carry the bodies. Also, find a couple of good cloaks so that we may hide their wounds.”

  The Norman shields were about the right size for the purpose, though some care was needed to ensure the bodies did not slip off.

  “Do it gently, boys. Treat them with the respect they deserve, for pity’s sake. Come on, lads. The king watches us; he will mark how well we handle his kin.”

  The men were not being clumsy or slow; Scalpi just needed something on which to focus to help disguise his sorrow. Shouting at the men, whether justified or not, helped distract from the hurt that threatened to engulf him. As he laboured with the others to manhandle the two bodies on to their makeshift stretchers, Thurkill could see his father’s cheeks were wet with tears, shed for his fallen companions.

  Thurkill had not known them for as long as his father but they had always treated him kindly, especially Gyrth. Yet he too was struggling to hold back the tears as he dragged the shields back over the body-strewn ground, towards the Saxon shieldwall on top of Senlac ridge. When they arrived, they halted in front of Harold and bowed their heads in respect. The king said nothing, but stared sadly at the bodies of his two younger brothers. Abruptly he waved them away, gesturing for them to be taken to the back of the shieldwall, before turning on his heel and striding back into the centre of the front rank to await the next attack.

  ***

  He didn’t have long to wait. And when it came, it hit them with a hitherto unparalleled ferocity. Whether the enemy knew the identity of the two slain leaders or not, the boost those deaths had given to their morale was immediately evident. Wave after wave of horsemen charged their shieldwall, hurling javelins, probing for gaps or weaknesses to exploit. Yet still the Saxons refused to break. Even though they had seen the loss of so many of their number, they would not allow their heads to drop. They were fighting for their king, for their country, for their very lives. Thurkill realised now that, whether intended or not, Harold’s decision to bring his brothers back within the confines of the Saxon lines was inspired. The shieldwall was determined to protect from further harm. They were not about to allow them to fall into Norman hands.

  As the afternoon wore on, the intensity of the fighting, if anything, increased as the Normans became more and more desperate to bring the battle to a successful conclusion before nightfall. They knew that, once the sun went down, Harold could use the cover of darkness to slip away back to Lundenburh where reinforcements would await him.

  In a break between attacks, Thurkill asked his father whether he had noted the same. Scalpi nodded, mid gulp, emptying yet another water skin to slake his burning thirst.

  “They seek to finish us before the day is done. But though we’ve lost many over on the right, I think we can still hold on ‘til nightfall if we don’t do anything silly. What’s more, I think there is a fair chance we may see fresh warriors arrive tonight. It’s no secret that many of us wanted Harold to wait longer in the city, as so many more were still expected. Those same men could be on their way here as we speak... Watch out! Here they come again.”

  The warning came not a moment too soon for another wave of horsemen was fast approaching. All around them, javelins were flying, some sailing harmlessly overhead, others thudding heavily into wooden shields, but yet more finding their mark in many a warrior’s soft flesh. Their numbers were such that the horsemen spread across the whole length of the fore-shortened Saxon line, threatening to swamp them. Right at the centre of the attack came a group of twenty or so riders, every one clad head to toe in armour and mail. They rode knee to knee in a wedge shape, hunched down over their horses’ necks and hidden as much as possible behind their shields. The papal banner flew high and proud over their heads. They came on fast and true, wavering neither left or right, aiming for the centre of the line where Thurkill stood with his father in front of the king and his wyvern banner.

  The impact when it hit them was worse than anything that had gone before. But there was no way to avoid it; He had no choice but to stand tall and hope to survive. It was useless though. The first horse missed him by no more than a hand’s breadth; its bared teeth and hot breath flashing past his eyes as it crashed through
the shieldwall, the Saxons too exhausted from many hours’ fighting to resist. The beast to its left, however, hit him full on. He had no time to marvel at the strength and courage of the animal, willing as it was to charge into a line of men each wielding wickedly sharp blades, as he was thrown backwards by the force of the blow. The only thing that saved him was the fact that the horse had hit him with its shoulder rather than full on, knocking him sideways rather than backwards thereby stopping him from being trampled underfoot.

  Even so, the situation remained dire. The shieldwall had been fractured right at its centre. The whole fate of the army hung in the balance and there was nothing Thurkill could do. He was lying dazed and winded on his back, praying to God with what consciousness remained to him that he be neither skewered nor bludgeoned while he lay there. Around him was a heaving mass of hooves and feet as the battle raged on intensely; the defenders desperate to stem the tide created by the surge of horsemen through the wall. Despite his blurred state, he was reassured by his father’s voice, calmly directing those around him, plugging gaps where he could, encouraging everyone to keep fighting.

  “They come for the king’s banner. Stand firm; we must protect the Dragon of Wessex.”

  Thurkill marvelled at the strength and courage of his father. All day he had been like a beacon of hope and light for all those around him, lambasting and praising them in equal measure; exhorting and cajoling everyone to dig deep into their souls to find the will to resist. As Thurkill lay there, a tear came unbidden to his eye. If he could be but one half the man Scalpi was, he might yet do his father proud.