Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  He knew he was just a heartbeat from death. But at the same time, the opportunity for which he had been waiting was now staring him in the face. In launching what he had expected to be the killing blow, FitzGilbert had over extended himself. In an instant, Thurkill let go of the axe and twisted his hand back to his leather belt where he found the comforting grip of his seax. Grabbing hold of it in a reverse grip, he released it from its sheath and, using every ounce of strength he could muster from his prone position, he slammed the point down as hard as he could into Richard’s bare foot. The force he used was so great that the blade went straight through the flesh and bone and buried itself a full hand’s breadth into the soft earth beneath.

  FitzGilbert screamed in agony, dropping his sword and flopping to the ground to grasp his injured foot. Meanwhile, Thurkill used the time to push himself back to his feet, picking up his axe as he did so. He stood over the wounded form of his enemy, blade poised squarely over his exposed neck. His family’s faces flashed before his eyes, flooding his brain with emotion as he stood victorious over the hunched form of his mortal enemy. His eyes brimmed with tears, a mixture of relief and hurt that threatened to engulf him.

  “Finish him!” He was unsure who it was who called out but it brought him back to the moment. Looking up, he smiled wanly at those around him, suddenly exhausted by the events of the night. In truth, he had had enough killing for one day but FitzGilbert deserved death, of that there was no doubt. Shaking his head as if to clear his mind, he took a step back before launching the hardest kick he could muster directly at the side of his head. The Norman collapsed, unconscious.

  ***

  “Wake up, you whoreson.” Thurkill flung the contents of the wooden pail directly in FitzGilbert’s face. It was a foul-smelling mixture of water and pig manure that Osfric had gathered from his farm. It had the desired effect though as the Norman came back to life, coughing and spluttering as some of the foul effluent filled his mouth, nose and eyes.

  The indignant look on his face was replaced almost immediately with one of fear as he realised the full horror of his situation. He was standing with his back to a tree on the outskirts of the village, his arms pulled back and bound firmly behind the trunk. The cords had been pulled so tight that he was unable to move. Another bond had been placed around his forehead keeping his head up and his face pointing forwards. As he tried to move, the gash in his left foot opened once more, oozing a fetid mixture of blood and pus, covering the thick red crust that had begun to form.

  FitzGilbert’s voice was thick, his lips cracked. “What do you want with me, Saxon? Kill me and be done with it.”

  Despite his fear, there was still a cold, hard courage in his eyes which Thurkill could not help but admire. He must have known his doom was both inevitable and imminent, yet he would not beg for his life. His pride would not allow it.

  “Don’t worry,” Thurkill smiled without humour. “I have every intention of killing you. But it was important to me that you did not die in combat. You are not worthy of that honour. Instead you will die here, by my hand, like the animal scum you are, bound to this tree with no weapon in hand. It won’t be a quick death; I won’t allow you that mercy. You will have time to watch the life slowly seep out of you as you contemplate your sins and how you will answer for them before God. Then I will leave your body here to be devoured by wolves and your bones picked clean by the crows. You deserve nothing more for what you did to my kin.”

  “I care not, Saxon. Your time is over anyway so you will not enjoy your pathetic little victory for long. Harold is dead and your army defeated. Soon your whole country will submit to William and your kind will be wiped out for good.”

  “That may be, but when my time comes, be it soon or when I am old and grey, I know that I will meet my family once more with my head held high, having avenged them. Your soul, however, will wander the land forever, finding no peace without a Christian burial.”

  Whether the thought scared him or not did not show. Instead, FitzGilbert stared implacably at Thurkill, a sneer slowly spreading across his face that showed his contempt.

  “Enough!” Thurkill drew his seax and strode forward. The Norman let out an involuntary gasp as he prepared himself for death, but quickly regained his composure sufficiently to mount one last act of defiance, hawking a great gobbet of phlegm directly into Thurkill’s face. Without pausing to wipe himself clean, Thurkill drove the blade deep into his exposed gut. FitzGilbert grunted but did not cry out, as if determined to deny the young Saxon any satisfaction at all from the kill. Staring intently into the Norman’s eyes, Thurkill twisted the blade until it was horizontal and then dragged it slowly across the base of his belly, opening a huge gaping wound out through which spilled blood and intestine.

  “Rot in hell, you bastard.”

  EPILOGUE

  __________________________________

  5 November, Lundenburh

  Thurkill pulled back on the reins as he crested the rise. Placing his hands at his sides he arched his back, trying to ease some of the ache brought on by long miles on the road. Ahead of and below him, the ground sloped away down to the wide expanse of the great river which snaked its way across the land, as far as the eye could see in both directions. To his right, where the sun was now slowly rising, weak and watery in the late autumn dawn, he could just about make out the coast where the river spewed out into the cold, grey sea that divided their little island from the land of the Normans and Franks to the south and the Danes and other Norse peoples to the north and east.

  Directly ahead of him the long, wooden bridge stretched across the river from the settlement of Suthweca on this southern side to the walled city of Lundenburh itself to the north. Not far west of the bridge, the river took a sharp turn to the south and there, on the far side of the river, he could make out the new abbey that the old King Edward had built and where he had been buried.

  “There she lies, lads. The greatest city in the country. And by all accounts it’s where we will find Edgar, the new King of England.”

  There were six others with him. First among them, as ever, was Eahlmund, who now hardly ever left Thurkill’s side, having assigned himself as his lord’s personal bodyguard. Then there were the two brothers, Leofric and Leofgar, both of whom had decided that their fortune lay with their young lord rather than by staying on in Haslow. The party was completed by Copsig, Eopric and Eardwulf, the three young men who had joined them after the ambush in the forest. The rest of the warband had decided to stay with their families to make a new life out of the ashes of the old, including Osfric, who had claimed he was too old to be fighting at his age, and his son, Osfrith, who felt his duty was to stay with his father to help look after him and his mother. Thurkill had been sorry to see them go; especially the young lad as he had proven himself a staunch fighter in the short time they had been together; but he understood the decision and could not, in truth, hold it against either of them.

  “Sod Edgar! I don’t know about the rest of you but I just want a good beer, a good bed and a good woman; and not necessarily in that order. In fact, the more I think about it, all three at the same time would be ideal.”

  There’d been precious little joy since they’d left Haslow so it was good to hear the men laughing at Eahlmund’s joke, offering their own ribald comments about how they intended to enjoy the delights of the city. Dutifully, Thurkill laughed along with the rest but said nothing; he wasn’t sure how long it would be before he felt the need for happiness once again or was even capable of allowing it into his life.

  “Come on then, lads. If you shift your arses we can be there in time for breakfast.”

  A short while later they reached Suthweca; a moderate-sized collection of houses, inns, shops and a church or two that had grown up simply because it stood at the southern end of the bridge into the city. Many had been the time that travellers had arrived after dark when the gates had been closed for the night, needing somewhere to stay until morning. Enterprising t
raders had not been slow to see the opportunity and now the community had a thriving life all of its own, separate to the city to its north. This morning, however, it was deserted. It was still early, admittedly, but surely by now there would be people about? Shopkeepers setting out their wares, travellers starting out on their journeys?

  They saw no one until they reached the small fort that guarded the entrance to the bridge. There they were met with a line of warriors, each one dressed as if ready for war, and all carrying spear and shield. They formed a solid shieldwall, an interlocking line of men, blocking the gateway to the fort which, in turn, prevented access to the bridge. It was a narrow lane that passed through the walls of the fort, underneath a wooden palisade which was also lined with men, though these warriors were armed with bows; each one notched with an arrow and pulled back ready to loose at Thurkill and his little warband. As they came within range, a bare-headed warrior in the middle of the line of bowmen raised his arm, palm outstretched towards them, and shouted. “Halt! State your business and whence you come to Suthweca.”

  Thurkill looked from side to side, but there was no other way to reach the bridge other than through that gate. Staying calm, and careful to make no sudden movements lest he incite an overly nervous bowman, he took a couple of steps forward, his arms held out to the side, palms facing forward to show that he meant no harm.

  “I am Thurkill, son of Scalpi, loyal thegn to King Harold. I am come from my father’s village at Haslow, two days’ march to the south and, before that, from the battlefield at Senlac ridge where I fought alongside the king and my father and saw them both perish. My business is to seek refuge for my warband within the walls of the city to the north and to pledge our swords to the new king, Edgar, should he accept our troth.”

  The warrior lowered his arm and nodded, a new-found respect showing on his grizzled face. “I welcome one who fought at Senlac; I was there in the shieldwall until the end also. If you bring men and loyalty, then I dare say you will be welcome here as both are in short supply in these troubled days. Wait there, I will escort you over the bridge.”

  The speaker introduced himself as Wulfnoth. He had fought as a hearth warrior for Harold’s brother, Gyrth, and had only just escaped with his life after the ill-fated charge. After the battle, when he saw there was nothing more he could do, he had used the night to cover his escape and then had made his way north to Lundenburh as quickly as he could, fearful that the Normans would be marching with all haste behind him.

  Thurkill clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder as they walked. “I knew your lord well. He was a good man, like his brother, and I mourn their passing daily.”

  By the time they had reached the end of the bridge, Thurkill had told Wulfnoth what had happened to him since the battle and the look of sympathy on the other man’s face was genuine and heartfelt.

  “I am sorry for your loss, truly. But I fear there are many more such days ahead for many of us before we can be rid of this whoreson, William, and his men who maraud across our lands. With Harold dead and no other proven war-leader to hand, we have to look to Edgar as our one remaining hope.”

  “Where will I find the king? I would pledge my sword to him and those of my men.”

  “I’ll take you to him. He’s holding court in the palace at Westminster, making plans for war. I am sure he will be pleased to see you and will welcome you to his army.”

  Eventually, they arrived at the island of thorns where old King Edward had built his beloved abbey next to the existing royal palace from where he had been able to keep a close watch over its construction. The palace itself, however, was not much more than a great hall surrounded by a collection of smaller buildings that had made up the king’s private dwellings.

  As Wulfnoth pushed open the main door, Thurkill was immediately struck by the incredible noise and bustle within. All around, men stood in groups amongst the richly carved, wooden pillars that ran all the way along the sides of the hall. Many of them appeared to be arguing furiously with each other, gesticulating wildly or jabbing fingers in each other’s chests. In the middle of the hall, the hearth was filled with a roaring fire which made the atmosphere stuffy despite most of the smoke being drawn up through the central vent hole in the roof. Beyond the hearth, a number of scribes stood at their writing lecterns, frantically scribbling away at their parchments. Messengers stood next to them, waiting for the orders to be finished so they could gallop off to deliver them.

  At the far end of the hall, on the raised dais, a smaller party was gathered. In the centre, sat on the ornate wooden throne, was a young, beardless man, little more than a boy in fact. By his side were three others: two men and a woman. Thurkill immediately recognised the former, for he had met them on the march to Eoforwic several weeks before. Eadwine and Morcar had not changed since that time; their mood appeared as dark and as foreboding as it had been after Harold had lambasted them for their defeat at Fulford Gate. The woman stood between them, dressed in a long black woollen dress, must be their sister, Ealdgyth, Thurkill reasoned, who was still in mourning for her husband, Harold.

  What struck Thurkill most, however, was the young lad on the throne. The contrast with Harold could not have been greater. In place of the imposing, experienced war-leader now sat a boy who, whilst not that much younger than himself, seemed completely out of place. He looked ill at ease in the large wooden chair so recently occupied by his predecessor. Even the royal robes in which he was clothed seemed too big for him, as if they had been made with someone else in mind. He was a slight lad, yet to develop much in the way of muscle or bulk. On top of which his short dark hair, pale complexion and sallow features did little to give any impression of authority. Thurkill wondered to what extent the power of the throne now rested with this young man or with the earls beside him. Either way, his heart sank, his confidence for the fight ahead waning.

  He did not have time to dwell on his thoughts any further, however, as their arrival had not gone unnoticed. Earl Morcar leaned down and spoke in Edgar’s ear, causing the young king to look over in their direction. Smiling, he beckoned for them to approach the throne.

  Wulfnoth placed a hand on his shoulder to urge him forward. “Follow me, Thurkill, and speak only when spoken to.”

  As they came close, Edgar rose to speak. Immediately, Thurkill saw that he had misjudged the boy, as he spoke with a calm assurance and a regal bearing that belied his years. Perhaps there was more to being a king than just being an inspiring presence on the battlefield, he mused.

  “Well met, Wulfnoth. Tell me, who is this fine and noble warrior by your side?”

  Wulfnoth bowed his head before replying, nudging Thurkill as he did so to follow his example. “Lord King, I present to you Thurkill, son of Scalpi, loyal thegn and huscarl for the late King Harold. He hails from Senlac where he stood in the front rank of the shieldwall, alongside Harold, against William the Bastard of Normandy.”

  Edgar threw his arms wide in a gesture of welcome. “I am honoured to have you at my court, Thurkill, you and your warband. There are many here who, like you, have come from that field; some who will never fight again, so grievous are their wounds earned in defence of this land. But there are many more who stand willing to fight again, and again, for as long as it takes us to be rid of this Norman usurper. The throne of England is mine by birth right as the great grand-son of King Aethelraed, who was himself the father of King Edward who was buried at the abbey here less than a year ago.

  “Though we have lost the first battle, we are by no means defeated. William holds but a small part of the realm to the south and with every day that passes he must grow weaker while we grow ever stronger.”

  Thurkill had no idea how much truth lay behind these words but he didn’t care. His initial misgivings had been replaced by a feeling that this was a man he could follow; a man he could fight for and – if need be – die for. He had killed the scar-faced whoreson, FitzGilbert, and he knew he would have to kill many more Normans before he was
done. A surge of pride and furious anger grew within him and he found himself shouting Edgar’s name and thrusting his fist into the air along everyone else.

  As the noise died down, he became aware of shouts coming from outside the hall. At first he thought the cheering had carried beyond the walls of the palace to those without, but it soon became apparent that he was wrong. The door burst open to reveal a huscarl who ran straight to the dais. He was sweating with the exertion despite the cold, his blonde hair matted and stuck to his face beneath his helmet. Without waiting to be invited to speak, the warrior blurted his message.

  “Lord King. The Normans attack.”

  “Impossible!” Edgar sounded more indignant than frightened. “My scouts told me they were in Dover not four days ago, and showing no signs of moving.”

  “’I swear ‘tis true, Lord. I have seen them. They approach the fort at Suthweca even as I speak. They were about two miles distant when I came hither and must be close to half that distance away by now. The men at the fort are preparing the defences but the captain begs you to send reinforcements with all haste.”

  “So be it.” Edgar turned to face Eadwine and Morcar. “Gather your men and march to the defence of Suthweca. The Normans must not be allowed to cross the bridge; else all is lost. The defence of my kingdom starts here.”

  END NOTE

  Thurkill’s Revenge is set within the tapestry of the calamitous events of 1066; one of the most fateful years in British history. Whilst many of the events – such as the battles of Fulford Gate, Stamford Bridge and, of course, Hastings – took place largely as described, much of the rest is a work of fiction woven around that skeleton.

  Scalpi is one of the few Saxon warriors that we know was present at Senlac Ridge on the fourteenth of October and it was a small leap of faith to create a son for him, one that would have been old enough to fight alongside him. Thurkill would have been a typical, albeit young, huscarl – essentially a professional soldier in the paid service of a noble – trained from a young age to fight for his lord and die for him if honour demanded.