Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  “I’m with you, Lord.” Several others muttered in agreement.

  He smiled. “And I would welcome your company, Eahlmund, even though you have not yet heard my plan. I urge you to choose wisely, and be assured that I will respect your decision, whatever it may be.

  “I go north to Lundenburh where a new king has been acclaimed. I go there to pledge my sword to him and I will gladly take as many of you who would join me.

  “If you decide this path is not for you, then my counsel would be to leave here. It will not take the Normans long to work out what has happened and you can be assured their vengeance will be merciless. Rather, you should gather your belongings and your families and go. If you have family in villages nearby, go there; otherwise start afresh somewhere else. Either will be better than remaining here waiting to be killed.”

  One or two of the men looked uneasy, as if unsure of themselves and what to do for the best. Others shuffled their feet and looked anywhere other than at Thurkill. Those men will most likely not come with me, he thought. But that is understandable; they have a duty to keep their family safe which is just as powerful to them as what I must do.

  “Nope, I’m still coming with you.” As ever, Thurkill was grateful to Eahlmund for setting an example to the others.

  “I lost my father to these bastards and my mother has been taken in by her sister’s family, so I am free to do as I please. And I choose to stand with you and fight.”

  “Will I never be rid of you, you ugly devil’s spawn?” Thurkill slapped him on the shoulder, grinning broadly. Several others also agreed to follow, whilst the remainder held their tongues, one or two of them looking distinctly awkward. Thurkill was happy not to press, though, as there was still much work to be done that night.

  “Anyway,” he clapped his hands and laughed to lighten the mood. “You don’t all need to decide now; it can keep for a while longer. But there is the small matter of my oath to avenge Edith and Aga. I have a pressing need to pay my respects to FitzGilbert before this night is out. Who’s with me?”

  THIRTY

  2 November, Haslow

  By Thurkill’s reckoning there was about an hour left before dawn when they arrived back at Haslow. As well as the men who had faced up to the hunting party a few days ago, two or three more of the villagers had now joined their ranks. Happily, he was also able to welcome back Leofric who had recovered from the blow to his head. He was still groggy and suffering from continual headaches but not enough, so he said, to stop him from standing side by side with his brother and his lord.

  As soon as they reached the outskirts of the village, Thurkill gathered them all together to discuss his plan. From where they stood, Thurkill could see that the watch fires still burned in their iron braziers in front of the hall. But in contrast to before, now only a single soldier stood guard. No doubt with me out of the way, FitzGilbert sees little need for more, he smiled to himself.

  He turned back to face his followers, leaning in close to keep his voice low. “Looks like there is just one guard. Eahlmund and I will deal with him, the rest of you position yourselves in groups of two or three facing each door. Go now and wait for the signal. Two hoots of a barn owl and then you go. Understood?”

  Everyone nodded assent before scurrying off to their appointed places. Left alone with Eahlmund, Thurkill paused for a moment’s reflection. This was his home after all, where he had spent the last years of his childhood in happiness with his family. All that was gone now and all at the hands of the Normans. There was nothing left for him here anymore, certainly not once the slaughter of the escort party was discovered. They would not allow Haslow to survive; an example would have to be set. There had already been tales of settlements on the coast being pillaged and burnt to the ground and that was just to take supplies to feed their army. Who knew what they would do to a village involved in the murder of their soldiers? He was brought out of his reverie when Eahlmund placed a hand on his shoulder. “The others are in position, Lord. It’s time.”

  Thurkill grunted. “God be with us, Eahlmund. And may He forgive us for what we are about to do.” Having crossed himself hurriedly, he scurried off towards the side of the hall, careful to stay low and out of sight of the guard. As soon as he was in position, in the lea of the main wall, he stopped and turned to look back in the direction whence he had come. In the pre-dawn gloom, he could just about see his friend, crouching down, his back pressed against the wall of a house. He waved his arm to indicate he was ready and, as he watched, Eahlmund got to his feet and stepped out into the open. He began to walk with a slow, measured pace towards the hall. As he walked, he stretched his arms out wide to show that he carried no weapon and meant no harm.

  When he had covered half the distance to the hall, the guard became aware of his presence and called for him to halt. As if pretending not to understand the command, Eahlmund continued his slow walk. As he grew closer and came more into the light from the brazier, Thurkill could see he was even smiling; he nodded appreciatively to himself, the lad was playing his part to perfection.

  The soldier repeated his warning and took a few steps towards Eahlmund, drawing his sword as he did so. This time, Eahlmund stopped, tilting his head quizzically to one side and shrugging to show he did not understand. Thurkill heard the soldier mutter what sounded like a curse under his breath and smiled to himself. He’s unsure what to do. He does not know whether he’s dealing with a real threat or a complete simpleton?

  After a few more moments of hesitation, the soldier made up his mind and began to walk towards the Saxon, confident that he could manage the situation on his own and perhaps eager not to wake up the hall’s occupants without good reason. He did not make it within five paces of Eahlmund, however, as he fell in an unconscious heap as his legs buckled beneath him. Stood behind him, Thurkill hefted from one hand to the other the piece of wood he had taken from the forest, as if testing its weight and density. “There’s nothing like a decent bit of oak.”

  Eahlmund grinned, his eyes now filled with evil intent. “That’s one out of the way. Now for the rest.”

  “You know what to do.”

  With a nod, Eahlmund strode off to the nearest brazier to put the agreed plan into action. Once there he cupped his hands around his mouth and gave the signal for which the others had been waiting. Together, they all rushed forward, dragging carts and heavy barrels which they used to block the entrances, to prevent anyone from leaving. They worked quickly and efficiently with a minimum of noise. It was almost inevitable, however, that one or two of the occupants might stir and venture outside to see what the fuss was, so they had to move fast to make sure all was ready.

  When they were done, just the main entrance, by which Eahlmund and Thurkill now stood, was left unblocked. Reaching forward, they each grabbed a brace of burning logs from the brazier and hurled them high on to the thatched roof. Although the air was cold, it had not rained for several days now and so the straw was dry. There was a momentary quiet, long enough for Thurkill to worry that the plan might fail before it had even begun. But then the straw suddenly ignited with a fearful whooshing sound. Almost immediately the flames began to spread rapidly across the entire roof. The night sky was lit up with an angry orange glow and the air was filled with plumes of thick, billowing smoke.

  Thurkill stood back, aghast at the sudden intensity of the conflagration; his emotions conflicted between shame at destroying his father’s hall and the overwhelming desire for revenge against the Norman scum who had murdered his family. He prayed to God that there were no Saxons within; when concocting the plan he had assumed that the Normans would not wish to share the living space with anyone but their own, and that assumption was being put to the test now.

  By his side, Eahlmund stood with a look of steadfast determination on his face. “Now they will come, for sure.”

  No sooner had he spoken than the first shouts of alarm were heard from within, just about audible over the noise of the burning roof. Already the f
lames were starting to lick at the thick wooden posts that supported the walls, and here and there they were even alight. Confident that the other doors were barred sufficiently to prevent escape, four of the villagers had now made their way to the main door, leaving only a couple of men to watch over the other exits. Now they stood grouped around the entrance, scythes, clubs and spears in hand, to await developments.

  It did not take long for the first man to emerge, coughing and rubbing his eyes from the effects of the smoke as he stumbled out into the cold, night air. He never stood a chance. Leofric rushed forward and thrust his spear deep into the man’s unprotected gut, before wrenching it out again in one smooth movement that ripped a deep gash across his abdomen. No sooner had he fallen than Leofgar was there to drag the body away, out of sight of the next man to emerge.

  “FitzGilbert is mine. We take him alive!” Thurkill roared to make himself heard above the flames, desperate to make sure he was not going to be robbed of his moment.

  Two more Normans came bursting out of the hall. These men were better prepared, however, having seen what had befallen their comrade. Although they were not wearing mail shirts, they had managed to grab sword and shield from within. Shoulder to shoulder, they came barrelling out of the hall having determined this was their best hope of survival. At first their plan worked as the speed and ferocity of their charge took the Saxons by surprise. Leofric, standing to the left of the doorway, was barged over as he was struck by the kite-shaped shield with the full force of a dipped shoulder behind it. The man to his right was less fortunate, though. Too slow to heed the warning that Thurkill yelled at him, he was struck down by a savage sword blow that took him between the neck and shoulder, cleaving him almost in two.

  Thurkill had not even had time to learn the man’s name; he had not seen him before that evening; but nonetheless he felt the loss just as keenly as if he had been a close companion. He had hoped that none would be lost in the night’s escapade and it pained him that he was unable to hold good to that promise. In truth it was the man’s lack of experience that had cost him his life, he was no warrior for sure; but even knowing that did not make the loss any easier to bear.

  The two Normans made it no further, however. In the time it took for them to kill the young lad, the remaining Saxons closed in for the kill. On the far side, Osfrith shoved his spear between the running legs of the furthest soldier, causing him to go down in a tangle of limbs. Quick as a flash, his father, displaying surprising agility for a man of his advanced years, darted in to finish him by burying his seax in his neck before he could regain his feet. Seeing that his time was up, the surviving soldier hurled his shield at the nearest opponent and then ran headlong at Thurkill, his sword held aloft in both hands, ready to deliver a killer blow. The blade gleamed in the light of the flames, blood from the dead farmhand dripping down his hands and arms, making him appear all the more fearsome. He came on with reckless abandon, having no regard to his own safety. It was one last, wild charge to try to escape his fate; kill or be killed.

  Thurkill did not panic; the situation called for calm. He stood, feet shoulder-width apart, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet as he had been taught by his father. He held his axe loosely in his hands, taking comfort from its well-balanced weight and the neat fit of the grip in his palms. With just moments to spare before the onrushing Norman crushed his skull, Thurkill took a deft step to the left, his attacker’s sword sailing harmlessly past his head. In the same movement he brought the shaft up sharply, smashing the wooden end into the Norman’s unprotected face. There was a sickening crunch as the nose was smashed and teeth dislodged from his gums. He was unconscious before he even hit the ground.

  By now the hall had been almost entirely engulfed in flames and was in danger of collapse. Nevertheless, there had still been no sign of FitzGilbert. By his reckoning, Thurkill thought there must be at least one other soldier in there along with his nemesis. Surely, they could not stay there much longer? He could not believe they would willingly choose a fiery death over the chance to fight. It did not take long for him to be proved right. The next soldier came out, warily, hunched low behind his shield. Thurkill stared hard at him, trying to determine his identity. No one dared approach in case it was the leader. Then, Thurkill caught a glimpse of a shock of blonde hair; it was only fleeting but it was enough to confirm that the man was not his hoped for target. Turning his head, he shouted out to the half dozen men gathered around him.

  “Take him! It’s not FitzGilbert.”

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when the most horrendous animalistic noise he had ever heard came from inside the hall. It sounded more like a wounded bear than a man. Turning back to face the hall, he was just in time to see his nemesis sprinting towards him, sword flailing around his head as he came, smoke rising from his clothing where the incredible heat within the hall must have been on the verge of setting it on fire. He was naked but for his braes; his skin blackened in places where it had been seared by the intense heat inside the burning hall. The pain he felt must have been unbearable.

  Taken by surprise, Thurkill had just moments to react. There was time only to raise his axe, an almost futile attempt to parry his opponent’s blade. It was late and it was desperate, but it proved to be just enough to save his life. FitzGilbert’s sword made contact halfway along his before slipping down all the way to the blade where it grated with the most terrifying screech of metal on metal. He doubted he had ever been hit harder; the force of it caused a jarring sensation all the way along his arm from wrist to shoulder, threatening to numb the muscles completely.

  The Norman’s momentum brought him face to face with Thurkill and it was an horrific sight. His features, already disfigured by the age-old scar, were contorted in pain, his cheeks and forehead blackened from soot and blistering in places where he had been exposed to the intense heat of the flames. Furthermore, much of his hair had been singed away, the effect of which combined to give him the most gruesome appearance. None of it seemed to have affected his strength or dexterity, though. It was all Thurkill could do to hold FitzGilbert at bay. The Norman’s teeth were bared, seared lips stretched back over the gums in some devilish grimace. He could feel his hot breath on his cheek as he screamed obscenities at him in his own tongue, apparently driven mad by a combination of pain and anger. Thurkill felt as close to death at that moment as he had ever been.

  Suddenly, he felt an intense pain in his groin. The Norman had retained enough lucidity to lift his knee and drive it hard into his unprotected balls. The impact caused him to double over, the air forced from his lungs. Despite the blinding pain, he had the presence of mind to drop to his knees and roll away out of arm’s length. It was a good job that he did as FitzGilbert followed up his success with a powerful downward hack of this sword which, instead of splitting open his back, sailed uselessly through the air before hitting the muddied ground.

  The Norman roared in frustration, spinning round to face Thurkill who was struggling to regain his feet, using his axe as a crutch. Through tears of pain, Thurkill could see his opponent’s eyes light up in triumph, believing victory was within his grasp. He must have known that he was going to die, there was no escaping that fate, but at the moment he was consumed by an animalistic urge to kill Thurkill.

  Swallowing down the bile that had risen to his throat, Thurkill was happy to let FitzGilbert think he was beaten. Despite the agony he felt in his crotch, he knew he could keep him at bay until he had recovered enough to turn the tide. Until then, the more the bastard thought he was winning, the more likely it was that complacency might lead to a mistake.

  For now, though, he had to keep his wits about him as the Norman was keen to press home his advantage. He rushed forward once more, hacking at Thurkill’s head and body with incredible speed. Pretence or otherwise, it was as much as he could do to fend him off. He was still moving awkwardly; the pain had eased a little but his bruised balls were still restricting his movement. He needed to bid
e his time until an opportunity presented itself. The rest of his warband had gathered around them, anxiety etched on their faces, but not daring to intervene. They could see that FitzGilbert had the upper hand and feared for their lord’s life.

  The next attack was accompanied by the sound of the hall collapsing as the fire finally wrought its full destructive power. He had no time to mourn the loss of his home and the memories it held, though. Again and again he had to block the wild lunges aimed at his head and body. FitzGilbert’s sword seemed to be a blur in front of his face so fast was it moving. How much longer can this devil keep up this pace? More to the point, he thought, how much longer can I hold him off?

  The sound of metal clashing against wood and metal was ear-splitting, echoing off the walls of the dwellings around him. His arm jarred with every strike; his muscles screaming with the effort required to parry the Norman’s sword, to prevent it from cleaving his skull in two. Slowly but surely, he was being forced backwards, step by step, as the onslaught showed no signs of abating.

  Suddenly, without warning, Thurkill felt himself toppling backwards, his left foot snagging on the outstretched leg of one of the dead Norman soldiers. He could not stop himself; it was as much as he could do to keep hold of his axe as he landed heavily on his backside, his spine jolting painfully with the impact.

  FitzGilbert roared in triumph, a blood-curdling howl filled with hate and pain. He rushed forward, eager to end the fight before the Saxon could regain his footing. In the little time available to him, Thurkill could do no more than twist his body despairingly to one side. He prayed it was enough but at the same time, he prepared to meet his end. The blow – when it came – missed his head by a whisker. He felt the waft of the air as it swept passed his skull, glancing instead off his mailed shoulder. The pain made him cry out and he feared at first that the bone might have broken.