Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2
Page 21
He took a step forward and drew himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders as he did so in order to maximise the effect. He stood a good head taller than the soldier, resplendent in his Saxon lord’s finery. With an exaggerated flourish, he swept the cloak back to reveal the hilt of his axe, a gesture that he hoped could not be mistaken. At the same time he put his hands on his hips and barked. “My name is Thurkill, son of Scalpi, and I am lord of this village. I demand entrance to my own hall so that I may speak with your lord.” He knew that the soldier could not understand a word he said but hoped at least that his tone, as authoritative as he could muster, would leave no doubt as to his importance.
The solider, however, remained steadfastly unimpressed. He repeated the same words but also added a few more while pointing meaningfully at Thurkill’s axe.
From behind him, Eahlmund leaned forward. “I think he wants us to leave our weapons here with him before he’ll let us in.” It was an age-old tradition amongst their people too, dating back to more volatile times. Only the lord and his bodyguard were allowed to carry blades of any kind within the hall. Quite apart from the fear of assassination, there was always the chance that a drunken argument could get out of hand, so the absence of weapons helped keep the carnage to a minimum. It was a further kick in the balls to have to comply but he had no option unless he wanted to start a fight right there and then.
Irritably he snapped at Eahlmund. “That much is clear, even to me. It doesn’t mean I have to like it though.”
Nevertheless, he removed his axe, handing it and his seax to the soldier and indicating that Eahlmund should do likewise. The door warden then nodded his satisfaction and stepped to one side to allow them entry.
Once inside, the memories came flooding back. Though it had been not much more than a month since he was last here, it still felt like a lifetime. Familiar smells assailed his nostrils: the wood fire in the central hearth; meat roasting on a spit being turned by a young churl. He almost expected to see his father seated in the lord’s chair at the far end of the hall.
When he did look, however, it was not his father he saw but the same, scar-faced Norman who had come to Harold’s feast in his palace in Lundenburh before the battle. The same man who had so cruelly and so foully butchered the king as he lay wounded on the field of battle. He was slouched in his father’s chair with one leg draped over the arm, In one hand he held a goblet of wine and had what looked like a pork rib in the other, the juices of which were dripping down his chin and onto his tunic. Thurkill had to fight hard to stifle the feelings of revulsion and anger that washed over him.
He walked forward slowly, giving himself time to slow his breathing and to take in the rest of the occupants of the hall so he might see what they were up against. Sat behind the same bench as scar-face were two more Normans, presumably captains whose rank entitled them to eat with their lord. Elsewhere, a further half-dozen soldiers lounged at benches along the side walls. Most of them were too engrossed in the food and drink set before them to bother with him, but one or two looked up, looks of undisguised disdain on their faces.
Aga and Edith were also present. Both had immediately taken notice of his arrival, worry etched on their faces.
FitzGilbert had appeared not to notice the newcomers, however. He was more concerned that his cup was empty. “Hey, woman! More wine.” His grasp of the Saxon tongue was basic to say the least but effective, his barked order sending Edith scurrying away to fetch another skin.
By now, Thurkill – with Eahlmund no more than a pace behind his left shoulder – had reached the dais on which the top table stood. He stood there, shoulders back, head held high, waiting to be invited to speak. After several moments, during which his impatience grew immeasurably, FitzGilbert finally looked up from the conversation he had been having with the soldier to his right.
“Who are you?” His words were terse and to the point.
With a great effort of will, Thurkill managed to remain respectful as the old Saxon traditions of hospitality demanded. “Lord, my name is Thurkill, son of Scalpi, lord of this village and the land surrounding it.”
There was no sign of recognition or emotion on the part of the Norman; rather, he looked bored by the whole affair. “And what do you want with me, Saxon?” He spat the last word to make clear that he felt it to be an insult.
“I have come to offer my thanks to you for taking care of my lands in my absence and to relieve you of that burden. I have returned to claim this estate as my own in keeping with the laws of our fathers and their fathers, as the eldest surviving son of the previous lord.”
“Returned from where?”
Thurkill hesitated momentarily, unsure whether he should reveal his presence in the recent battle. In the end he decided that he would gain nothing by trying to hide it. “From the battle at Senlac, where I stood with my father who died with honour defending his king.”
The Norman yawned. “So, your father paid the price for standing against Duke William, the rightful king of this god-forsaken land. Do you not know that he was promised the throne by your King Edward? A claim which Harold himself swore on holy relics to support. Your Harold was no king in the eyes of God; he was a usurper and all those who fought for him were no better than traitors. And – also according to your laws – the lands of a traitor are forfeit. Haslow, and all the land which surrounds it, is mine now.” As he finished he waved his hand dismissively as if indicating there was nothing more to discuss.
For a few moments, Thurkill was too stunned to reply. Eventually, though, rising indignation got the better of him, anger causing his voice to crack. “By what right do you dare deprive me of my birth right?”
“By right of conquest, boy; no more, no less. You fought and you lost. I cannot explain it any more simply than that.” Turning away from Thurkill as if there were no more to say on the subject, FitzGilbert then yelled, “By God’s bones, woman, where is my wine? If I have to come and get it myself, you’ll feel my belt across your back.”
Thurkill bridled but held his peace with a huge effort of will, despite the double provocation of being called a boy and hearing his sister, the daughter of a lord no less, treated as if she were a common slave. Before he could reply, however, Edith returned with a fresh wineskin.
“Finally, by God! A man could die of thirst. Hurry up and fill my cup, Saxon whore.”
Thurkill was about to speak when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Aga who – almost imperceptibly – shook her head as if to tell him to let it pass. The gesture reminded him of his father’s advice; a man should be judged on knowing which battles to fight and which to avoid. Winning the war is more important that a single battle that gains you nothing.
By now, Edith was leaning over FitzGilbert, pouring a stream of the dark red liquid into his cup. As she did so, the Norman took the opportunity to grab a handful of her backside. As he did so, he grinned lasciviously and made a comment in his own tongue to his companions. In her shock at being groped, Edith stumbled, spilling wine all over FitzGilbert’s tunic and crotch.
He jumped to his feet. “Merde! You stupid whore!” Without a moment’s hesitation he swung an arm catching Edith squarely on the cheek with the back of his hand. The force of the blow was enough to send her sprawling to the ground where she lay sobbing with pain. Aga rushed to her side to comfort her as best she could.
Scalpi’s words of wisdom flew out of his mind. This was more than he was prepared to stomach. Nonetheless, he retained an icy calm as he glared at FitzGilbert. “Touch her again and you die, Norman.”
A hush descended across the hall. Every single one of the Norman soldiers now turned to stare at the Saxon. Though they might be ignorant of the meaning of the words, the cold fury behind them was unmistakeable. Even FitzGilbert paused in the act of wiping down his wine-soaked clothes. Eventually he resumed his seat and smiled. “I am sorry, Thurkill son of Scalpi, but it sounded to me like you just threatened me in my own hall.”
“Perhaps I was not clear before. My mastery of your tongue is not good, after all. This hall, everything in it, the whole village and all the people that live here belong to me now. And as their lord, I will do what I will with them, all of them.”
To emphasise the point, he moved over to where Edith now sat, wrapped in her aunt’s arms. Without a word he bent down, grabbed her by the hair and hauled her to her feet. Once upright, he then seized her by the throat and pulled her towards him. Forcing his mouth over hers, he held her in place for what seemed an age, before roughly pushing her away. For her part, Edith endured the ordeal, allowing herself to go limp until she was released.
Before Eahlmund could stop him, Thurkill charged forward, bounding on to the dais and lunging forward to try to reach the smirking Norman. Blinded by rage, with no weapon to hand, he had no idea what he would do if he reached him, but that was not the point. It was an act born of desperation and was doomed to failure, but his honour could not allow the insult to his own sister to stand.
But, anticipating just such a move, the two captains were quick to intervene. One grabbed him by the arm and throat, forcing his face down hard against the table’s solid oak surface while the other held a deadly looking dagger to his neck, pricking the skin so hard that he felt a trickle of blood. At the same time, two more soldiers rushed in from either side, pinning Eahlmund’s arms to his sides and rendering him immobile.
Unfazed, FitzGilbert grinned. “A foolish reaction, but one that was not unexpected from a brainless Saxon oaf such as you. It is no wonder you were defeated.”
Thurkill struggled against his captors but it was useless; their grip on him was too strong. At any moment he expected the knife to be rammed home, ending his life and condemning his sister to her fate. Inwardly, he cursed his impetuosity; he was no use to anyone dead. Would he ever learn to curb his temper?
FitzGilbert, meanwhile, was pacing up and down behind his chair, apparently deep in thought. “I don’t understand you, Saxon. Why forfeit your life for this serving girl, pretty though she may be? It makes no sense.”
Thurkill kept silent, suddenly aware of the danger he had created for Edith by his foolhardy outburst. His heart beat furiously against his chest as he felt the panic rise in him.
“I understand something of your culture, so I know that a lord has a duty to take care of all those who rely on him for protection, but that alone does not explain your actions. There must be more to it. What more is she worth to you?”
Suddenly, he stopped pacing, coming to a halt right beside Thurkill. Bending over he pushed the shaggy mane of hair away from the Saxon’s face, chuckling as he caught sight of the missing ear. Having stared straight at Thurkill’s face for several moments, he then looked over to where Edith stood. After two or three more looks, he began to nod, realisation dawning in his mind.
“All becomes clear. Same nose, same cheek bones, same eyes. I would say that makes you part of the same family.” He paused, as if running the calculations through his mind. “Not that different in age from what I can see; she’s your little sister, isn’t she? Now that would explain your behaviour.”
Thurkill said nothing. The truth was out and there was no point denying it. Both their lives now hung by a thread; a thread that could snap at any moment.
“Luckily for you, you find me in a good mood today. I have killed men for much less, but I am inclined to be magnanimous. We have only just been introduced and no doubt you would have hoped for this encounter to have played somewhat differently. I can understand your anger; I, too, would not be pleased to lose my ancestral home, but then I didn’t lose the battle, so what would I know?” He could not stop himself from laughing at his own joke, before becoming serious once more.
“But you should know that this is the first and the only warning that I shall give you. If I see you on these lands again, I will hand your pretty little sister over to my men so that they may take turns with her. After that experience, I think it’s safe to say that she will no longer be quite so sweet and pretty. That said, she might even enjoy it – make a woman of her. Most girls her age are married with children where I come from. In fact, I have a good mind to do her the honour of making her my whore. She has a certain comeliness that I find not unattractive. I trust I have made myself sufficiently clear?”
FitzGilbert then waved to his two soldiers, indicating that they should let Thurkill rise.
Despite his predicament, Thurkill was determined not to show weakness in the face of this callous dog. “Your time will come, Norman. Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow but I will have my lands back. And if I hear that any harm has come to my sister it shall be visited upon you ten-fold. I will take pleasure from slitting your throat and watching you die.”
Richard threw his head back and laughed. “A delightful image to be sure. I’m almost tempted to see you try.” Almost immediately though, his face changed to a murderous stare, his cold, blue eyes piercing to the back of Thurkill’s skull. “Do not try my patience, Saxon. I have agreed to let you live, now be gone before I change my mind.”
TWENTY-SIX
28 October, Haslow
Thurkill threw his drinking horn against the wall of Osfric’s hut, splintering it into several pieces. It was late into the night and he showed no signs of slowing down, driven on as he was by a burning anger and shame at the day’s events. The room’s three other occupants – Osfric, his son, Osfrith, and Eahlmund – looked up momentarily from where they sat, talking in hushed tones, but said nothing. No one wanted to provoke his ire any further, preferring to let it run its course. Surely soon he would either collapse in a drunken stupor or fall asleep.
He’d already downed several horns of ale, from a barrel that Osfric said he had been saving for the forthcoming Yuletide festivities. The old man had muttered grumpily at having been made to open it, but Eahlmund had convinced him that his lord’s need was greater. Osfric had relented but not before he made it clear that he would expect coin to be paid in due course.
“Bastard!” Another crash as Thurkill kicked the stool he had been sitting on, sending it flying against the door.
Osfric looked imploringly at Eahlmund. “Can’t you do something? Before he drinks all my ale and destroys my home in the process.”
Eahlmund looked from father to son, as if to ask why it had to be him. When no help was forthcoming, he shrugged his shoulders, sighed and pushed himself to his feet. Trying to look bolder than he felt, he walked over to where Thurkill stood staring out of the window, righting the stool and placing it where he might coax the young man to sit back down.
“So, today did not go as we hoped, but it was never going to be easy, my friend. But all is not lost.”
Thurkill swore viciously. “It’s not your sister at the mercy of these Norman scum.”
“I know that, Thurkill, but smashing up this place piece by piece isn’t going to help, is it? You’re still alive; you still have your strength. You can still protect her.”
Despite everything, his friend’s reassuring words managed to have a calming effect. Thurkill’s shoulders slumped and he allowed himself to be guided over to the stool, where he sat down putting his head in his hands.
“What can I do, though? There’s at least ten of them and there’s but one of me.”
“Well, you have me as well, so that makes two. Though how much use I’ll be is a matter of conjecture.”
Thurkill lifted his head to look at Eahlmund and smiled through the fog of drink and rage that clouded his brain. “Your loyalty and friendship do you credit, Eahlmund. Your father would be proud. But two is not much better than one when there are so many of them.”
“Four.”
“What?”
Osfric stood, puffing his meagre chest out. “I
said that we number four. My son and I will fight for our lord. It is our duty.”
He didn’t know whether it was the ale, tiredness or a combination of both but Thurkill felt his eyes misting. He blinked several times and shook his head in an attempt to clear it but when he looked at the father and son, now stood proudly side by side, his vision was still somewhat blurred. “A lord could not want for more loyal followers than you, but I cannot ask you to do that. These are trained warriors we’re up against. They would kill you both as soon as look at you.”
“We have both stood in the shieldwall before, both trained with shield and spear. We still have them here in this house, hidden in the rafters above. We will gladly raise them again in your cause, Lord.”
Thurkill shook his head with bemusement. The room was swimming before him as the effects of the drink caught up with him, but he was also starting to feel burgeoning shoots of hope take hold in his heart. “I would be honoured to have you stand with me, Osfric, and you, Osfrith. You have served my family well for many years and it will not be forgotten. However, we must be realistic; even four will not be enough, I fear.”
Osfric shrugged. “Let us worry about that in the morning. I will send Osfrith out at dawn to rustle up a couple more lads. There are others here who have done time in the fyrd. Till then, Lord, might I suggest that you get some sleep before you empty my ale barrel?”
***
Thurkill awoke the next morning with a mouth as dry as a barn floor at the height of summer and a head that felt like every blacksmith within two days’ walk was hammering inside his skull. He groaned as he pushed himself upright, but this only made things worse. He slumped forward, pressing his fingers to the sides of his head, as if he could somehow massage the pain away. After a few moments he could stand it no more. He lurched over to the corner of the room where there stood a pail of fresh water into which he dunked his head, taking great gulps to try and rid his mouth of the taste of the ale.