Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  William nodded. “It is understood and accepted. If he breaks my peace, he must be prepared for the consequences. Your laws in such matters are not so different to ours. Which brings us to the reason for our being here today, does it not?”

  There was a brief pause while each of the dozen or so men in the Edgar’s party looked at each other, awaiting the first move. Eventually, Ealdred stepped forward, bowing his head before the duke.

  “Indeed so, Lord. We have come here for two reasons: firstly, to submit to your authority and secondly to invite you to accept the throne of England in accordance with our traditions and established practices.”

  William nodded approvingly; his scowl slowly being replaced by something approaching a smile. “You would wish me to become your king? To rule this land, to set its laws, to dispense justice in accordance with those laws?”

  Edgar hung his head, shame clearly burning a hole in his heart. If he had been in Edgar’s place, Thurkill would have wanted the ground beneath his feet to open up to swallow him whole. Anything to put an end to the ignominy of the moment. He could see the young man’s fists clenching and unclenching in a stoic effort to remain in control of his emotions. He felt a wave of pity for the boy whose reign was being so cruelly cut short less than two months after it began. More than anything, however, he felt sorrow for his people. Who knew what lay ahead for the Saxons under Norman rule?

  “Yes, Lord. We place ourselves in your hands. The kingdom is yours to rule. We ask you do so fairly and justly as befits the duties of a lord over his people.”

  “I want to hear it from Edgar.”

  “Is my word as Bishop of York not enough?”

  “No. With all due deference to your eminence, I would have the man who would be king in my place submit and swear fealty to me now. Step forward, Edgar, prince of Wessex.” These last words were spat contemptuously, as if he refused to recognise the boy’s authority or title in any way.

  Thurkill looked at his erstwhile king; his whole body seemed to squirm with awkwardness and anger. But to his credit, perhaps remembering his role and status amongst those he represented, he straightened his back, cleared his throat and stepped forward proudly. Stopping before William, Edgar then knelt and clasped his palms together as if in prayer. He then reached forward so that his hands hovered above the Duke’s knees. Whether to humiliate or to add to the drama of the moment, William made no move, until finally enveloping the boy’s hands in his own much larger, shovel-like paws. “Proceed.”

  With a voice that did not waver and which belied his tender years, Edgar then made his oath, loudly enough for all to hear. “I promise on my oath that I will be faithful to my lord, never to cause him harm and will observe my homage to him completely against all persons, in good faith and without deceit.”

  The duke nodded approvingly. “Now, I call upon Ealdred, Bishop of York, and my own half-brother, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, to witness this act. May they call for your excommunication from God’s holy church should you ever break your word. Now rise, Edgar, loyal subject of the new King of England.”

  The two men then rose and embraced each other, before the duke pulled back to hold Edgar at arm’s length. “I too was left without a father at a young age and had to fight for my right to rule. Though my fortune has fared me a little better, perhaps, I hope you will not rue your decision for too long and that you may - in time - come to love me much as you would a father. Let us put these things behind us and go forward hand in hand together.”

  It was a remarkable moment. In truth, Thurkill had not known what to expect of this meeting and, after FitzGilbert’s rashness, he had feared the worst. But he had not thought to see such warmth and such a genuine desire for reconciliation from the duke. Whether it was sincerely meant or not, it was a canny move designed to wrong foot the English nobility. To rebel against William now would be a clear breach of trust.

  “If we might now turn to other, equally important matters, we should discuss plans for my coronation; for not until then can I truly call myself King of England. For that reason, I would have it done sooner rather than later. I would be pleased for the ceremony to take place in King Edward’s abbey of Westminster. It seems fitting that I should be crowned in the church that was built by the man who promised me the crown of England, don’t you think? It would also seem right for it to take place on the feast of our Saviour Jesus Christ’s birth, one week from today.

  “Lord Ealdred, can I rely on you to make the arrangements?”

  FIFTEEN

  “Come on, Hild. We need to get there early to have any hope of finding a decent place. St Peter’s abbey only holds a few hundred souls and there are going to be thousands that want to be there.”

  Hild’s muffled voice sounded from behind the cloth screen where she had - for what seemed like hours now to Thurkill - been getting ready for the coronation. “But as Aelfric’s man, your place is guaranteed is it not?”

  “Only if we get there before he goes in. He will not wait for us as he, too, will want to secure the most advantageous spot. Have you not got that dress on yet?”

  “Alright, alright. It’s easy for you, you don’t have to bother with jewellery or your hair – or at least I assume you don’t, judging by the appearance of that great shaggy mane of yours. How many birds had made their nest in there at last count?”

  Despite his frustration, Thurkill could not help but laugh. He was still chuckling when she pulled back the drape and stood before him. Thurkill’s laugh died in his throat as he stared at her in awe. She stood in front of the room’s narrow window through which a piercing shaft of sunlight caught her full in its beam. Her golden hair shone in the light forming what looked like halo around her face. She is more beautiful than any angel, he thought.

  Hild blushed, embarrassed by his scrutiny. “Close your mouth before something flies in, for goodness sake. It’s not as if you’ve never seen me before.”

  “Not looking like that I haven’t,” he mumbled. Not knowing what else to say he shuffled towards her, arms held wide to embrace her. Laughing, Hild pushed him away.

  “Keep your hairy paws off me, you great big oaf. It took me hours to look like this and I’ll not have it ruined by you crushing my dress and hair in one of your clumsy bear hugs.”

  When they finally arrived outside the abbey, Thurkill found, to his relief, that Aelfric had not yet gone inside. He had fretted every step of the way as the crowds along the road that ran from east to west had been had slowed their progress. In the end he had taken to walking in single file with him in the front to barge a path through the throng and Hild tucked in behind. On arrival, he instructed Eahlmund and the others to find a tavern close by and wait. “I’m sorry you cannot also attend, but there is simply not room to fit everyone in.”

  Eahlmund grinned. “Don’t worry, Lord. A few ales to toast the new king is far more our kind of thing, rather than what promises to be a dull, boring affair with lots of bishops gabbling on in Latin.”

  “When you put it like that, I think I may join you,” Thurkill laughed.

  “Over my dead body, you will.” Hild grabbed his one good ear and pulled him away from the others towards the great doors in the east end of the Abbey.

  Wincing as he was dragged away, Thurkill grinned. “I’m sorry, my friend, you will just have to drink without me this time.”

  Inside, the abbey was already more than half full. Aelfric bustled forward as far as he could go but it was no further than two thirds of the way along the nave; the front section having been reserved for Norman lords and their families or retinues. Still, Thurkill was pleased with their position, in the second row of Saxon nobility and on the end of the aisle so that they would have an unencumbered view of William as he processed along the nave. Everywhere he looked there were Norman soldiers, stationed at short intervals along the grey stone walls of the church. Outside, hundreds more were positioned in a kind of protective cordon around the open area that surrounded the abbey and the adjacent k
ing’s hall. Whether they expected trouble or not, they were certainly prepared for it.

  Thurkill pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind. Surely the day would pass peacefully? Of course, there were those that were not happy, himself included, but what was the point of getting yourself killed over some foolish act of protest?

  As far as he was concerned, he had already decided his future. He had spoken to Aelfric a few days back and he had been offered a small village on his lands not far from his own seat at Huntendune. The previous lord had been killed at Senlac along with most of his followers and so the villagers needed someone to replace him.

  “Who better than you, Thurkill?” He’d said. “Think it over, talk to Hild about it, but I hope you will accept my offer.”

  In fact, there had been little to discuss. Hild had jumped at the chance, flinging her arms around him and smothering his face with kisses. Since she had been forced to leave her own village following her father’s death, Hild had felt lost in the world, with no home and no friends or neighbours to turn to. The prospect of having a new home, and being the lord’s woman to boot, had filled her with new joy. It had warmed Thurkill’s heart so much to see her so happy once more that he’d rushed back to Aelfric to tell him. There was just the small matter of the coronation to endure and then they would be on their way. Aelfric had already declared that they would be travelling north the day after the ceremony.

  Eahlmund and the rest of the lads had been equally happy with the idea. They were farmers at heart and they too wished for a simpler life tilling the fields, away from the death and misery of the last few weeks. Doing so on land owned by their lord just made the prospect even more appealing.

  Thurkill’s mind was dragged back to the present by a commotion from the back of the abbey. While his thoughts had been elsewhere, the space had filled up such that there was no longer any empty room whatsoever. People were crammed in on all sides and it was only the line of soldiers along the central walkway that kept that area clear for the procession. Using his extra height to good effect, Thurkill craned his neck back towards the entrance. Sure enough, things looked to be finally getting under way; he could see people filing in through the great east doors now.

  Nudging Hild, he bent down to whisper in her ear. “Here we go, the Duke is on his way now.”

  Hild’s eyes lit up; she’d never seen so many people dressed so richly all in one place. It was some time before they saw William, though. At the head of the royal party came Bishop Ealdred of Eoforwic, who would be officiating at the ceremony, followed by a several other bishops, one of which - Aelfric had said - was from Coutances in Normandy. After them came any number of priests followed by more monks than Thurkill had ever seen gathered in one place. As they walked slowly up the nave, the monks sang psalms in such wondrous harmony that Thurkill felt sure that Almighty God in heaven must be looking down and smiling on what he heard and saw.

  Finally, Duke William was there in all his finery, already bareheaded in readiness for the crown of England to be placed upon it. He was accompanied by his two half-brothers, Robert, Count of Mortain and Odo, Bishop of Bayeux. After them came a long line of other Norman lords and Thurkill swallowed nervously as he spied Robert FitzGilbert passing by. Fortunately, the Count’s attention was elsewhere and he strode past without a sideways glance.

  When all the participants were finally settled, the service began. With some sadness, Thurkill realised they were in for a long slog as everything was first being said in Norman before being repeated in English so that all present might follow. Church services had a habit of being interminably long without everything having to be done twice.

  Sighing, he steeled himself for what was to come, praying that his bladder would not let him down. He would not be able to force his way out of the church so he would have to piss himself where he stood were it to come to it. He felt sure that Hild would not let him forget such a disgraceful act.

  After a good while, Thurkill watched as Duke William lay down on the cold stone floor in front of the high altar. His body formed an approximation of the cross with his legs pressed firmly together and his arms stretched out wide on either side. Standing over him, Ealdred spoke numerous prayers and exhortations in Latin, which Aelfric explained were intended to call upon the Duke to promise to be a fair and just king over his people.

  “It’s known as the promissio regis - or king’s promise in our tongue,” Aelfric whispered. “This same promise has been used for the last hundred years or so since Bishop Dunstan, of blessed memory, first used it in the coronation of King Aethelraed Unraed. In short, the king promises to preserve the peace, to forbid robbery and all unrighteous things and finally to use justice and mercy in all judgements. Only in such a way can the people be sure that they will be ruled fairly and justly.” He finished by raising his eyebrows, as if doubting the how much they could trust words so easily given.

  The promise completed, Ealdred then directed William to take his place on the throne where he proceeded to anoint his head with holy oil. Then, he solemnly placed the crown upon his head, while the Norman bishop handed him the symbols of office: the sword, sceptre and rod. Whilst the duke sat perfectly still, showing the proper respect due for such a moment,

  Thurkill could have sworn he saw a slight smirk play across his lips, perhaps in recognition of the successful culmination of his long-held ambition to add the throne of England to his Norman dominions. There would be few in Christendom who would be more powerful.

  With the ritual completed, Ealdred then turned to the congregation and called upon them, in a voice that boomed across the whole church, reverberating off every wall, whether they would have William as their king. The response was deafening; hundreds of Saxon voices shouted their support, perhaps eager to have an end to a year that had seen so much upheaval and bloodshed.

  Though Thurkill also wished for peace, he could not bring himself to shout with the rest. By his side, Hild noticed his silence and squeezed his hand. She understood how he felt. The Normans had taken his father, sister and aunt; he was not ready to forgive just yet.

  SIXTEEN

  Something was very wrong. As the sound of the acclamation slowly died away, Thurkill realised that he could still hear shouting, but not from within the abbey. Around him, heads began to turn as folk tried to discern the origin of the noise. Whispered conversations flew up and down the rows of people as rumour and supposition began to fly as to the cause of the hubbub. Before very long, however, things took a frightening turn for the worse.

  “Smoke.” Thurkill lifted his head and sniffed deeply. It was unmistakable. The smell of burning wood was drifting from the back of the church, causing more and more people to look back over their shoulders in alarm. What’s going on out there? Thurkill wondered as he reached down for Hild’s hand to reassure her. Surely the Saxons outside had not chosen this moment to launch an attack? If so, it was nothing to do with Edgar; up in the front of the congregation, Thurkill could see he looked as non-plussed as everyone else. It would be a few rogue elements if anything; a few hot-headed fools who saw the coronation as an opportunity to cause mischief or even to attempt to kill the new king.

  People at the back of the abbey were now leaving in their droves; some running, some screaming as fear spread throughout the crowd. The threat of being burned alive, trapped inside the church, was a ready-made recipe for panic. Soon, the rush became a stampede, goaded by the shouts and screams that echoed off the bare stone walls.

  Grabbing Hild and holding her tight to protect her from the onrushing people, Thurkill fought to make his way towards one of the side entrances. Keeping his left arm close around her shoulders, he had to use all his strength to keep his footing as the hordes tried to push past, round or through him in their eagerness to escape. Here and there, a few unfortunate souls fell to the ground with a cry. If they were lucky, there was someone on hand to haul them back to their feet before they were trampled underfoot, otherwise a dreadful fate awaited the
m.

  Eventually, he reached the exit. The heavy wooden doors had been flung wide open as people forced their way outside. Through the opening, Thurkill could now see the flames. All around the abbey, houses, inns and shops were burning. What in God’s name is going on? In the confused melee around him, he could make no sense of it. There seemed to be no sounds of any fighting; no tell-tale noise of metal clashing against metal or wood, no screams of the wounded or dying. What he could see, however, were hundreds of Norman soldiers running in all directions. His thoughts turned to Eahlmund and the others. He’d left them drinking in one of the nearby inns, quite probably one of those that now burned fiercely. Silently, he mouthed a prayer that God might keep them safe.

  As soon as he was outside, he began to cough. The smoke here was thick and billowing, fed by the wind-assisted flames that even now threatened to engulf the thatched rooves of the nearby houses. He could see those buildings were doomed unless water could be brought quickly.

  Just as the thought occurred to him, scores of people arrived in the square, all of them carrying wooden buckets in each hand. Watching them for a moment, he spotted a familiar face amongst those who were trying to organise them. Still holding Hild’s hand, he powered his way towards him, pulling her along behind him. “Come on, they need our help.”

  By the time they had covered the short distance, Eahlmund had the men arranged into two lines leading from the burning houses back down towards the river. Buckets were being passed back and forth with incredible speed as they fought to douse the flames. The desire to save their homes and possessions lent the people an urgency and strength that meant they did not tire in their efforts. Bucket after bucket came to the head of the line where their contents were thrown where the fire was fiercest, before being passed back to be refilled.