He had lost his seax in the fall, the impact causing it to be sprung from his grip. Now as he straddled the man, he was lost in indecision without a weapon to hand. His hesitation gave the Norman the opportunity he needed. Wrenching his right arm free of Thurkill’s grip, he managed to punch his mailed fist on to Thurkill’s nose. The bone cracked with a sound like a dry twig breaking under foot. Dazed, he felt his vision blurring while hot, tangy blood flooding his mouth.
The knight immediately followed up his advantage with a further flurry of blows to the face. If it had not been for the narrow confines of the gully restricting the power of each punch, all would have been lost.
Any thought of trying to find his seax had gone; he had but one hope left if he wanted to survive. Shaking his head to clear the fug that threatened engulf him, he roared with anger and frustration. Then, he reached down with both hands to grab the soldier’s ears and began smashing his head back and forth against the ground. The Norman did his best to knock his assailant off, but he found his way blocked by the Saxon’s muscular arms clamped to either side of his head. After the second blow, the his helmet flew off, leaving the back of his head exposed. With each thud of skull striking earth, the punches became fewer and less powerful until, finally, he lapsed into unconsciousness. With one final effort, Thurkill lifted the limp form up and rammed his own forehead into the unprotected face for good measure.
For a moment, Thurkill remained knelt over him, his chest heaving, until the thumping pain in his head got the better of him and he slumped to one side, exhausted. Around him, the sounds of fighting had ceased and he prayed his men had been victorious. If not, it would be but a moment or two before he felt a knife slashing across his throat, ending his life.
But the next face he saw belonged to Eahlmund, his expression full of concern. “My God, Thurkill, that fellow has made a mess of your face. Spoiled your good looks, he has.”
He tried to laugh but the sound that came out was more of a croak that caught in his throat. Sitting up, Thurkill hawked and spat out the mix of blood and snot that had filled the back of his throat. His ruined nose still dripped with blood. Gingerly, he prodded the area with his fingers, wincing with pain as he did so. His vision was becoming more and more hazy; my eyes must be puffing up he realised. He hadn’t taken a beating like this since old Aelle the farmer had caught him in his barn with his daughter.
“Don’t worry though, Lord. If Hild can’t bring herself to lie with you now that you’re as ugly as a dog chewing on a bee, I would consider it my duty - no matter how painful it would be - to step in on your behalf.”
“I would be indebted to you, Eahlmund, were that ever to prove to be the case. But if I could drag you back to the moment, should I take it from your welcome presence that we have won the day? How fares everyone?”
Eahlmund’s face darkened. “Aye, Lord. Every one of the whoresons is dead, except one who managed to slip the net. The brothers have slit the throats of those that we knocked out, the rest we managed to kill. Even young Eopric took one before…” His voice caught and he dropped his gaze to the ground.
“Before what, Eahlmund?”
Tears filled his friend’s eyes as he spoke, his voice barely audible. “It was the bravest thing I ever saw, Lord. He stood his ground against one of the bastards as he rode the lad down. I shouted to him to stand aside and let the devil go, but whether he heard me or no, I cannot say. All I know is that he faced down man and beast and did not flinch, even as the sword took him in the neck. As far as I could tell, he died instantly; he would not have felt a thing.”
“What of the Norman?”
“Oh, Eopric got him alright. Stuck his spear right through his gut. He goes to meet his Maker in the knowledge that he did his duty.”
Thurkill bowed his head, his mind flooded with emotion. Young Eopric was the first of his warband to die. Though the fight could not have been avoided, he knew his death would prey on his mind for months to come.
With heavy heart, Thurkill pushed himself to his feet and walked groggily over to where the body lay. The poor boy was a mess, but he forced himself not to look away. In the last two months, he had seen more than his fair share of bodies with all manner of grievous wounds, but few had hit him as hard as this. The sword had caught Eopric where body and neck joined, leaving a deep gash that must have killed him instantly; a small mercy, thought Thurkill. It was a small consolation that, not six feet away, lay the Norman he had killed, the spear point still buried deep within him.
Uncertain what else to do, Thurkill knelt before him and bowed his head. Before long Eahlmund, Leofric and Leofgar joined him in prayer. He had never been one to pay too much attention in church; the only words he knew were those that Father Acha had recited every Sunday in his little church at the end of each interminable service. It had stuck in his mind because he knew it meant that he would soon be released to fill his afternoon with whatever pleasures he had planned with his friends. The words came to him, filled with memories of happier times. He felt a tear forming in the corner of his eye as images came flooding back to him of his childhood; a childhood which he imagined must have been similar to Eopric’s. It will have to do; I know no other…
“Our Father, who art in Heaven…”
The prayer completed, Thurkill rose to his feet, cuffing his eyes with his sleeve. He had to put the sadness behind him, though, as they were still some distance from safety. They still need to reach Lundenburh to warn Edgar before it was too late.
“Eahlmund, fetch the horses. Leofric, Leofgar, wrap Eopric in his cloak and lay him across his horse. Be sure to tie him on securely. We will take him back for burial.”
ELEVEN
“You dare return empty-handed? Did I not tell you I wanted him brought back to me alive?”
The hapless knight recoiled as Robert FitzGilbert punctuated every other word with a blow from his gloved fist. He was the sole survivor from the ambush, considering it his duty to report back to his lord. It was a decision he was already regretting.
“Tell me again, de Lacey, how ten heavily-armed and well-trained knights allowed themselves to be bested by a handful of peasants.”
With blood now streaming from his cut lip, the miserable man allowed the words spew forth. “They led us deep into the forest, into a narrow gully where the devils were waiting for us in ambush. Amery managed to kill one before he himself was killed, but everyone else died without landing a blow, such was the skill of their trap. I only escaped because of Amery’s brave sacrifice.”
“I care nothing for Amery, you or any of the other fools who perished there.”
FitzGilbert’s fury was so fierce that flecks of spittle sprayed from his mouth, coating de Lacey’s face with a fine sheen of saliva. He knew better than to react or attempt to wipe it away, though. He dare not antagonise his lord yet further.
“I sent you to do a simple job, to bring back my brother’s killer to me that I might have my vengeance. My mother could have accomplished it with ease. And yet it proved too much for you. It would appear that I sent boys in place of men.”
FitzGilbert turned away towards the fire where he stood, brooding in front of the flames for a few moments. Then – without warning – he turned, drew his dagger and strode back to the soldier, plunging the blade deep into his gut. So sudden and unexpected was the attack that de Lacey had no time to defend himself. He stood there helpless, held upright by FitzGilbert’s hand which gripped his throat, as his life ebbed away into the matted rushes on the floor of the hall.
A hush fell across the room; no one moved or said a word. Eventually, Duke William stood up from where he had been lounging in Wigod’s chair and yawned. “Robert, could I ask you to refrain from killing any more of my soldiers? You’ve already cost me nine in your hare-brained scheme and now this? I indulged you in this matter as a favour to your father who served me well in my youth, but there are limits and you would do well not to push me beyond them. Now, with your permission of course, migh
t we finally put this matter behind us and continue with the more pressing business of taking the throne of England?”
“But, Lord, the Saxon cur still lives, and I cannot rest while that remains so.”
“Yes, he lives and doubtless he does so in Lundenburh even as we speak. You had your chance and you failed and that is an end to it. If it was that important to you, perhaps you should have gone yourself - that way you’d at least have no one else to blame. Instead you have cost me ten good men - including this poor fellow here whose guts are even now making a mess of Wigod’s floor.”
Robert’s eyes burned with anger, his cheeks reddening with a mix of embarrassment and anger but he chose to challenge the Duke no further. Not for the time being at least. “As you wish, Lord.”
“I do wish. So, let that be an end to it. Once we have secured Lundenburh and with it the throne, then I care not what you do. Until then you are under my orders and will do my bidding. Clear?”
When FitzGilbert nodded, the Duke continued. “Now that little distraction is dealt with, perhaps we might resume our march on the city?”
“What are your orders, Lord?”
“I see no reason to part company with our current strategy. The more fear and misery we create, the more likely it will be that Edgar will seek terms. The most powerful man in the English church has already come over to our cause and today, emissaries from Edward’s wife, the former Queen Edith, have surrendered Wintancaester and its royal treasury to us. The tide is turning for sure, we just need to apply a little more encouragement to finish the job.
“I will split the army into two. I will lead the greater part north and then eastwards, whereas my brother, Robert of Mortain, will take the rest along the river. Between us, we shall cut a swathe through this land, pillaging and burning as we go. With luck, we will force Edgar’s hand.”
“What if he comes out to fight, Lord?”
William grabbed a goblet from the table in front of him, draining its contents in one draught, before replying. “Then we shall destroy him, like we did his predecessor. Our losses have been replenished twice over and we have nothing to fear. If he has any sense, though, he will seek peace and spare his people further suffering.”
TWELVE
Dusk was falling at the end of the next day when the first buildings on the outskirts of Suthweca came into view. Four exhausted, emotional riders led a fifth horse across which lay a body closely wrapped in a pair of torn and bloody cloaks. It made for a pitiful sight. As they trudged along the narrow road, men and women paused to bow their heads in respect, even though they knew them not.
They made their way over the bridge, eager to reach the king’s hall before the gates were locked for the night. With luck, Thurkill thought, his business with Edgar would be finished promptly so that he could seek out Hild before too long. He ached to see her, to take comfort in her arms. The pain of Eopric’s death hung over him like a forbidding black cloud, heavy with rain.
He left the brothers just north of the bridge, with instructions to find a priest to make arrangements for the lad’s burial. Meanwhile, he and Eahlmund made their way west. There was no danger of them losing their way among the narrow, criss-crossing streets as the abbey’s tower rose to a great height. It was said it could be seen wherever you stood within the city.
For the first time since the ambush, Eahlmund managed a smile. He had never been inside a royal hall, let alone met a king, and he was excited for the experience.
“Just try not to say anything. Only speaking when you’re spoken to was one of the first things my father told me when I accompanied him to Harold’s hall. I know it will be difficult for you – against your nature even – but try not to draw attention to yourself for once.”
Eahlmund grinned foolishly but said nothing, leaving Thurkill even more worried than he had been before. His head still ached from the beating he had received and waves of nausea washed over him from time to time. He had hoped it would have faded by now as he felt he would need his wits about him in front of Edgar’s court.
As soon as they were ushered into Edgar’s presence, however, Thurkill knew that something was amiss. The atmosphere was as thick as the smoke-filled air. Gone was the gaiety, the laughter, the cheer. All around men stood in small groups, talking quietly behind their hands. Several turned to watch him as he walked, making him feel more and more self-conscious.
To his relief, he spotted a familiar face standing with a small group close to the left wall. Steering Eahlmund gently but firmly by the arm, he greeted Aelfric warmly, genuinely pleased to see the old warrior.
“Well met, Lord. What news can you tell me?”
Aelfric’s response was muted at best. “Greetings, Thurkill. I was going to ask you and your friend here the same, but, by God, what has happened to your face? You look like you’ve taken on the whole Norman army on your own. And by the smell of you, I’d say you’ve ridden hard to get here, too. What you have to say must be of some import.”
“It is, Lord. Eahlmund and I come from Warengeforte where we watched Duke William and his whole army cross the Thames at the invitation of the turncoat Wigod, lord of that town.”
Aelfric snorted. “I fear this may be old news, my lad. Word has already come in from the shires to the north of the river; the Normans are on their way. Still,” he shrugged, “I am glad to see you and your man safe and well all the same.”
“I wish I could say that for all those who went with me.” In response to Aelfric’s quizzical look, Thurkill continued. “I lost a good man two days’ ride to the south and west of here.”
“How so?”
“In Warengeforte, I saw the brother of the man I killed after Senlac. He come to these shores to seek vengeance against me. My identity became known to him and he sent men to take me. With God’s help, we managed to deal with them, but not before they had killed one of my men; a young lad by the name of Eopric.”
Aelfric clapped his bear’s paw of a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I’m heartily sorry for your loss, Thurkill. These things are never easy. I fear there may yet be many more brave warriors who will give their lives in defence of Edgar and this kingdom before we are done.”
A silence fell between them, each man alone with his thoughts. True to his word, Eahlmund said nothing, though Thurkill could sense him shifting from foot to foot, craning his neck to see all that went on in the hall, especially up on the dais where Edgar was deep in conversation with a number of lords, among whom Thurkill recognised Archbishop Ealdred of York but few, if any, others.
“Tell me, Lord, what is the king’s mood? Has the fyrd been mustered? When do we march out to fight the Norman scum?”
Before answering, Aelfric looked around him as if to see who was in earshot. Then, leaning in close, he whispered. “All is not well, lad. Day after day, reports arrive of atrocities inflicted upon the people by the Normans. There are many now who begin to say that it might be better to submit than risk destruction. There seems to be little confidence in our new king; few believe he can lead us to victory. On top of which, we hear daily that Norman boats arrive at the coast, growing his numbers while ours dwindle.”
“What do you mean, ‘dwindle’? Surely the fyrd has mustered? We need to attack now before their strength increases yet further.”
“I’m with you, Thurkill, you know that. God knows it is the only option if we are to save the kingdom from the Norman whoresons, but there are too many others who do not share our view.”
“Such as? Who are these craven scum?”
Aelfric lowered his voice still further, making it hard for Thurkill to hear over the background noise. “Earls Eadwine and Morcar for two.”
“What?” Thurkill’s outburst caused a few heads to turn, making the colour flush to his cheeks. He continued more quietly. “I wondered why they were not here. Where are they?”
“They’ve gone north, taking their men with them. It’s a grievous blow as their warriors accounted for nigh on half ou
r numbers. Without them, I fear all hope is lost.”
“Bastards!” He hissed. “Why did they leave?”
“It’s not known for certain, they made no announcement. They left under cover of night; went north of the city to where their men were camped were gone by dawn. If you ask me, though, I’d agree with your earlier assessment. They have no stomach for the fight; no intention of risking all on a single throw of a die.”
“They have no master but themselves. They disobeyed Harold’s orders at Eoforwic and were soundly beaten for their pains. And they made little effort to reach Lundenburh in time for the battle against William. On its own, that may have cost the king his life. And now this.” Once more he found his voice had risen in his anger, but this time he had attracted the attention of the king.
“You there. Come forward and share your news. What can you tell me of William’s movements?”
Abashed, Thurkill walked into the centre of the hall, where he dropped to one knee before Edgar.
“Your pardon, Lord King. We are returned from Warengeforte where Duke William has crossed the Thames with his whole army. I am sorry to tell you that he was aided in this endeavour by Lord Wigod.”
Bishop Ealdred nodded. “So, it is true what we have heard? Wigod never even tried to stop them?”
“Quite the opposite, Lord. He invited the Normans into the town and freely replenished their supplies from his own stores.”
“I always had my doubts about that man, but I never thought he would betray his country so readily. Was he so desperate to save his own skin that he would openly side with the enemy?”
“There is more to tell, Lord. Shortly before I left, Bishop Stigand arrived. And though I did not see it with my own eyes, I am told he has sworn fealty to the Duke.”
“By God I will have his hide for this! Did he not stand in this very hall and acclaim me king? It did not take him long to change course; no longer than the time it takes the wind to change from east to west. I will see him strung up in the market place and have ravens peck at his eyes while he yet lives.”
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 33
