Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  Thurkill stood, expressionless and unmoved. “It matters not to me, Norman. Your William is no king of mine. Whether you murder me or he does makes no difference. Murder is murder. But if I were you, I would kill me now before it’s too late.”

  FitzGilbert snorted derisorily. “Too late for what, dog?” Disdain dripped from his words.

  “For what you did to my aunt and sister, you deserve to die. I will have vengeance for their deaths and I will be the instrument of your doom. I have sworn it before God; I will send you to hell myself. The longer you keep me alive the more chance I have to fulfil my oath. Are you willing to take the risk?”

  If FitzGilbert was in any way concerned by the threat, he betrayed no sign of it. “I have to admire your courage, boy. You people simply don’t know when you’re beaten, do you? It matters not, though. William’s soldiers will be here in a day or two and that will be the last I see of you. Before you go, however, your insolence is worthy of a parting gift.”

  He barked orders to the two guards and before Thurkill had a chance to defend himself, the blows began to rain down on his unprotected head and body. With his arms tied, there was little he could do to defend himself. He fell to the ground, pulled his knees up to his chest and his arms up to his face as best he could and simply waited for it to end.

  ***

  He had no idea for how long the beating went on; he was unconsciousness long before it was over. He awoke sometime later, back in the log shed, his legs tied once more. There was a bitter taste in his mouth which he soon realised was blood. Moving his tongue around, he also found that one of his teeth was loose to the point of having becoming dislodged. Filling his mouth with saliva he hawked and spat the whole sorry mess, tooth, blood and saliva, as far away from him as he could.

  “Ah, you’re awake then?”

  “Eahl...” he coughed to clear his croaking voice. “Is that you, Eahlmund?”

  “Aye, and Osfric too. We have been lying here for ages waiting for you to regain your senses. That must have been some kicking they gave you; you have been out for hours.”

  Thurkill flexed his jaw, trying to ease the pain he felt when talking. He didn’t think it was broken but it hurt like hell all the same. “I’ve had worse punches from my sister.” It was as well they couldn’t see him, though, else they would all too easily see through his feigned bravado. It was probably only the fact that the Normans were supposed to send him to Duke William that had kept them from being truly brutal. It would not have done to send a corpse before their lord, after all.

  Eahlmund paused before replying, as if not believing him. “What now, Lord? We need to get you out of there and away from this place.”

  “And how will you do that? Soldiers are coming to take me before William where I am to stand trial before him, all so he can be seen to be dispensing justice as if he were king of this land.”

  “But he’s not the king.” Osfric was indignant. “A new one has been proclaimed in Lundenburh.”

  The news shocked Thurkill, causing him to forget his pains. “What? Who? Tell me all that you know, Osfric.”

  The old man hesitated. “Well, I don’t know for certain, but Osfrith met some men on the road earlier today; foreign merchants making their way to the coast to get back to Flanders. They came from Lundenburh with news of the goings on there.”

  Eahlmund interjected. “Mostly turmoil and chaos by the sounds of it.”

  “Yes, but they also spoke of a meeting that took place in old King Edward’s abbey at Westminster. All the great lords of the land were there. Those that didn’t die in the battle, that is.”

  “That would include Earls Eadwine and Morcar, I don’t doubt, amongst others. What we might have done if we had them and their men with us on the field.”

  “You are right, Lord, those names were mentioned, but I forget any others.”

  “No matter. Continue with the story. What of this king?”

  Thurkill’s excitement grew. Perhaps with a new leader, the country might rally round and throw the bastard Normans back across the channel. He racked his brains to think who it might be. The old King Edward had had no sons to inherit, that’s how they had ended up with Harold. Harold had sons but they were surely too young to rule? What about Eadwine or Morcar? The crown did not have to pass from father to son after all; just to someone to whom all the great nobles would agree to pledge allegiance. Beyond Eadwine and Morcar he could think of no one else; and their reputation had suffered badly with the defeat at Eoforwic which made them unlikely candidates. But in a time of crisis such as this, who knew what strange events might come to pass?

  “They said that the lords acclaimed a new king of the English, a man who goes by the name, Edgar, a prince of the house of Wessex.”

  Edgar! Of course. The last surviving heir of the house of Wessex.

  “Who the hell is Edgar?”

  “Edgar, my poor ignorant Eahlmund, is of the same family as the old King Edward. If I am not mistaken he is Edward’s great-nephew, being the grandson of Edmund who was known as Ironside who ruled briefly some fifty years ago, before the Dane, Knut, conquered the land.”

  Eahlmund spoke slowly, as if concentrating hard. “So… Edmund will have been Edward’s... brother?”

  “Half-brother, but yes. After Knut took the throne, Edgar’s father – who also went by the name of Edward – went into exile to a land far to the east called Hungary, I think. He only came back to these shores about ten years ago, if I recall what my father said.”

  “So why not have this other Edward as king then, instead of Edgar?”

  “I suppose we would have done had he been alive – ahead of Harold even – but he died shortly after his return, leaving his son, Edgar, who could have been no more than a boy of five summers at the time.”

  “But surely he’s still only a boy now? How can he be expected to rule let alone defeat William?”

  “He can’t be much older than fourteen, maybe fifteen at best, Eahlmund. Probably hasn’t even started to grow his moustache yet.”

  Eahlmund chuckled. “Whereas you, Lord, have a full beard.”

  Even though it was meant in jest, Thurkill bristled at the implied criticism. “The difference, my friend, is that I am not responsible for the lives of hundreds of thousands of people and nor do I have to muster and lead an army big enough to defeat the Normans.”

  “Well, if we don’t get you out of here, you won’t be doing anything at all either way.”

  “And we don’t have long to work that out,” Osfric chimed in, “before they come to drag him off to see William.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  1 November, Haslow

  The door to the woodshed was flung open so fiercely that Thurkill was jerked out of the uneven sleep into which he had finally fallen. With the way his bonds had been tied, it was almost impossible to find a position that allowed any comfort, meaning he had been awake for most of the night. Intense fatigue made his eyes feel as if they were lined with grit and dust; he had to blink several times before he could bring his vision into focus.

  “Out!” As ever the soldier was brief and to the point.

  Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself to his knees but could manage no more. Two soldiers, men that he had not seen before, barged into the confined space and, with a hand under each armpit, lifted him – not ungently – to his feet. Then they stood by his side, supporting his weight, helping him to move, with tiny shuffling steps, under his own volition. Blinking into the early morning daylight he tried to make sense of his surroundings. In front of him stood an open-topped wooden cart, hooked up to a pair of huge oxen. Around it, before and aft, stood a dozen soldiers, cloaked, helmeted and armed with spear, sword and shield. In front of them, FitzGilbert waited, hands on hips. His smile exuded a sense of power and superiority, betraying his determination to enjoy every moment.

  “Good morning, Saxon. I trust you are refreshed and ready to meet your new king? You might have cleaned yourself up a bit for the occa
sion, though, don’t you think?”

  Thurkill offered no reply other than to spit a gobbet of blood and phlegm disdainfully on the ground mid-way between him and the Norman.

  “No matter. I can’t say that I am sorry to see you go, though it would have been nice to have had the pleasure of killing you myself. I could have added you to the collection along with your aunt and sister.” A malicious grin accompanied his words, as if doing all he could to try to goad Thurkill into a reaction; any excuse to beat him to a pulp once more. When Thurkill made no move or sound, however, he sniffed, disappointed, before continuing.

  “But when one’s king commands so must one obey. These men,” he waved his hand at the twelve new soldiers, “have come to take you to William’s camp so you may face royal justice for your actions.”

  “Don’t be so sure that you have seen the last of me, Norman. I have not forgotten my oath to kill you.”

  FitzGilbert laughed heartily. “Your optimism is truly admirable, boy. I hope that when they hang you, your dance of death is both long and painful.” With that the Norman turned on his heel and strode back into the hall, dismissing the young Saxon for good.

  Strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders, propelling him forcefully up and into the wagon. Unable to use his arms, he was powerless to stop his head from bashing into the wooden planks along the edge. Dazed, it took a few moments for his head to clear but when it did it dawned on him just how desperate his situation was. Six soldiers had formed up behind the cart and six more were in front, not to mention the two who rode on the cart itself. He had no idea what had happened to Eahlmund, Osfric and the others but they had left it too late now for sure. His fate was sealed; he would be delivered to William where he would be executed. The trial would be short - for show purposes only really. There was no way he would be allowed to live, not after what he had done.

  I’m sorry, father. I have let you down. Not only will the family name die with me but I failed to protect your sister and daughter. Nor will I be able to avenge their death as honour demands. Feeling more miserable than he could ever remember, he buried his face in the dust of the wagon’s bed. Shielded as he was from the view of the following soldiers, he allowed the tears to flow unchecked.

  ***

  He awoke, shivering. The Normans had not seen fit to give him a cloak to protect him from the late autumn chill and so he was dressed still only in tunic and trews. On the bright side, he mused, at least it’s not raining. It was dark all around him except for the deep orange glow of a dwindling fire about ten or so paces away. At that moment, he wished for nothing more than to be lying within reach of its warmth.

  He could make out numerous shapes wrapped in cloaks and blankets huddled around it; many of whom appeared to be snoring heavily. Closer to him, two soldiers stood guard, stamping their feet and flapping their arms heavily against their bodies in an effort to keep warm. They were deep in conversation with each other. Though the foreign words were unintelligible to Thurkill, the intonation made clear their obvious disgruntlement. He allowed himself a small smile; all the world over, it seemed, soldiers belly-ached about having to stand watch at night, in the cold, while their comrades slept.

  Just then he froze. What was that noise? It sounded like an owl hooting but, having grown up in these parts, it was like no owl he had ever heard. In fact, he would have sworn it sounded almost human, as if someone was trying to imitate an owl. There it was again. Yes, it was unmistakeable now. Thurkill tensed; something was afoot. Surely the guards must realise, as he had, that the sound was a signal of some kind? He turned his head slowly towards the two men, keeping his breathing as even as possible to give the impression that he was still asleep. With relief he saw they showed no signs of alarm; they were blissfully unaware of any imminent danger.

  Next he sensed rather than saw two shadows passing him, creeping silently along either side of the wagon. Even at such close proximity, he could not hear them at all. Thurkill’s heart thumped heavily against his chest. To his ears it sounded deafening; he was amazed that his guards could not hear it. The adrenalin pumping through his veins made him itch to be part of whatever was going on; the frustration of being unable to move was overwhelming. He knew, however, that he must lie still. He could not give the soldiers any reason to turn around, lest the would-be assassins be discovered. He wondered who the men were; it was impossible to tell in the dark. Their features were masked by hoods which were pulled up over their heads. One seemed to be somewhat taller than the other; he wondered if that, perhaps, could be Eahlmund?

  Time seemed to stand still as step by critical step, the two indistinct shapes edged closer to their quarry, keeping in step so that they were at all times equidistant from the Normans. Then, as if by pre-arranged signal, they took the final step that brought them within killing range. Simultaneously, each man clamped their left hand over their victim’s mouth from behind, yanking their head back to expose their neck. Then, in one seamless movement, they brought their right arms round, the dwindling firelight glinting off the metal seax blade that each man held. With swift, practised hands the assailants viciously scored the knives across the pale white flesh, opening each throat with a wickedly deep incision that severed the windpipe, ensuring the dying men would utter no sound.

  Blood gushed from severed blood vessels, soaking the front of their mail shirts. The two attackers held their prey upright for what seemed an age, waiting until all life had fled from their bodies, before lowering them gently to the ground, careful to avoid any excessive clanking of metal. All the while both they and Thurkill stared at the sleeping forms around the fire, willing them not to awaken. Mercifully, not one of them moved or even so much as stirred; none of them was even remotely aware of the mortal danger that now threatened them.

  Almost immediately, several more shadowy figures surged forward like wraiths past the wagon. With great stealth they advanced on the camp fire, where they fanned out in a circle until there was one man behind each soldier. Then, at a signal from the tall leader, they struck down as one, over and over again, stabbing and slashing at each man’s head and neck.

  It was all over in moments. Not one man had managed to cry out and – even if he had – it would have been to no avail as there was no one there to help them. Every single one of them was either dead or dying. The leader who had given the signal to attack was now stalking around the outside of the circle, checking each man. Here and there he stopped and listened before kneeling to finish any that still lived. Only then did the attackers return to the wagon where two of them clambered up and began to cut away at Thurkill’s bonds.

  It took a few moments for the circulation to return to his arms and legs; he had been bound hand and foot for more than two days now and every time he had struggled, the knots had seemed to get tighter. His wrists had been rubbed almost raw where the cords had chafed continually against the skin. Eventually, though, he was able to stand unaided and climb down from the cart.

  Immediately, he was mobbed as the wraiths – now revealed to be his comrades from Haslow – gathered in a circle around him, throwing questions at him, slapping him on the back and trying to find out if he were unharmed. Eahlmund, who had indeed been the tall leader, said nothing but just grinned with affection, like a dog greets its absent master. Even in the dark, Thurkill could see his face was splattered with blood, giving him a devilish appearance. In truth, they were all giddy with excitement, revelling in their night’s work. Thurkill was happy to let them have their moment. No doubt they would tell the story for years to come, of the time they massacred a band of deadly Norman knights.

  There might have been little honour in killing defenceless men in such a way – like gutting pigs ahead of a feast day – but needs must. Without their efforts, Thurkill knew he would have soon been dancing on the end of a rope in front of a crowd of baying Normans. They would have his eternal gratitude; any feelings of distaste would soon be forgotten. Once the noise had died down sufficiently, Thurkill raised
his hands to speak.

  “That was well done, my friends. I am forever indebted to you.”

  His words were met with a loud and raucous cheer accompanied by further back slapping. It was some time before he could continue.

  “But a line has been crossed now. You could have left me to my fate and gone on with your lives and no one would have thought any the less of you. It was I who decided to attack their hunting party, it was my aunt and sister who were murdered and it was me that was to be punished. It was not your fight. But now your actions have made it your fight too; they will hunt you and they will kill you for it if they can. This is not some wild, youthful adventure that ends up with a cuff round the ear when you get caught by your father. This ends in death; it’s just a matter of deciding whether it’s ours or theirs.”

  The group was quiet now, like men who come home drunk from the tavern only to be scolded by the wives. For some time, no one moved or spoke, each alone with their own thoughts, Finally, Eahlmund stepped forward into the centre of the group.

  “I think we all knew that in our hearts before tonight, Lord. But that did not stop us from taking this path, for I swear this was the right thing to do. We are at peace with our souls on this matter. The Normans may have won a battle and killed our king but they have not taken the country from us just yet. We have a choice either to bend the knee like our grandfathers did before Knut or to fight back and protect our land and our families. And if we are to do that, we will need strong leaders like you.”

  Thurkill nodded his understanding. “Then I salute your courage, one and all.”

  “What now, Lord?”

  Thurkill was unsure who had called out, it was too dark to be certain, but it sounded like the swineherd’s son, Osfrith. “It is time to make a choice, friends. I know where my path lies and you must decide whether you wish to follow that same path or pick another.”