Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  While Leofric took his men on a wide circuit of the hollow, Thurkill armed himself, putting on the mailshirt and helmet that Eahlmund had brought from the village. He took his time to make sure everything was just so for he wanted his appearance to frighten the bandits. With luck they might submit without bloodshed. Lastly, he slipped his left arm into the leather straps at the back of his shield, feeling the familiar heft and weight of the round wooden board and taking comfort from it.

  As he readied himself, he felt the familiar knotted sensation take hold of his stomach, as anxiety grew about what the next few moments would bring. If held no fear, though. If anything, he welcomed it, grateful for the sharpening of his senses that came with it.

  An owl hooting in the distance brought him back to the moment. There it was again. It was the sign that Leofric was ready. It occurred to him, briefly, that the sound of an owl in day time might seem incongruous to anyone who took the time to consider it, but he hoped that the brigands were too otherwise preoccupied to worry about strange bird noises. Besides, the shadows were lengthening now as the short winter day approached its end, so perhaps it was not all that out of place.

  “Here, Lord. Go with God.” Thurkill nodded his thanks as Eahlmund handed him his two-handed war axe, the same one that King Harold had gifted him after his first battle at the bridge near Stamford. It felt good to be holding it once more, its wooden handle worn smooth by years of use by its Norse owner before it came to him. He hoped one day to hand it on to his son, with the story of how it was won, and that the boy might also hand it on to his own son in the fullness of time. He prayed he would not have to dip its blade in Saxon blood that day, though; that the sight of it alone might be enough to give them pause. But he would be ready, should it come to it, to plunge it once more into the flesh of another man.

  “Thank you, friend. Watch for my signal and then bring the men forward. It’s my hope that they surrender, but if God wills it then we must all be ready to fight.”

  Turning back to address the men, he could see that a several of them had turned white, their eyes wide and staring. He remembered back to his first time and knew only too well the feelings that filled their souls at that moment. Eahlmund had already positioned himself, Eardwulf and Copsig evenly amongst their number so that none was too far away from an experienced man, and then there was the dependable Urri in his usual place out on the left. As ever the huge blacksmith looked ready for anything. His teeth were bared and Thurkill could swear he could hear a low growl coming from him. The blood lust was beginning to descend. If it did not come to a fight, that one might need to be restrained, he mused grimly.

  “Remember your training, lads. Keep your formation, protect the man to your right and all will be well. Though their numbers match ours, they have no armour and no shields. If they are foolish enough to stand against us, we will cut them down like wheat falling to the sickle. Keep your nerve, keep your footing and you will have nothing to fear, I swear it.”

  Satisfied that they were ready, he strode forward towards the edge of the ridge. He walked up behind the largest tree so that he might be hidden from sight until the very last moment. Then, when he was ready, he stepped out from behind its gnarled and knotted trunk that was the width of at least two men.

  Such was the stealth of his approach that it took a while for his presence to be noted. He stood with his feet planted shoulder width apart, his right hand resting on the end of the axe handle, while its blade rested casually on the ground mid-way between his feet. The height of the ridge added to his already imposing stature, lending him an appearance that he hoped would strike awe into those below.

  Eventually, one or two heads began to turn in his direction, a movement which soon spread across the whole group. A hush fell as they took in the sight of this fully armoured warrior. He had no idea what was going through their minds but he hoped his appearance would go some way to robbing them of any bellicose intentions they might have harboured.

  Thurkill chose to let the silence fester for a while. It would do no harm to let their fear grow unchecked. He could see that Agbert was conscious now, but still groggy. He was lying on the ground curled up like a new-born foal. That was something that went in the outlaws’ favour, at least, but there was still the small matter of the boy’s father to avenge. When he felt they had waited long enough, he spoke.

  “My name is Thurkill and I am Lord of Gudmundcestre, the village to the east of here. I believe you have some things that belongs to me.” Every word, though delivered with calm assurance, dripped with menace, leaving them in no doubt that he was deadly serious. “ You must send the boy back to me, return my pigs, and submit to my authority. If you do not, things will not go well for you.”

  There was no immediate reaction to his words. One or two of the men looked frightened, on the verge of panic almost, glancing wildly in every direction as if fearing they would be attacked at any moment. These men would be of little use in a fight, Thurkill thought to himself. Their first thought would be to run. Many others, however, were made of sterner stuff including Beorhtric, who appeared to have emerged from his leadership struggle with Lilla as the winner. He spat contemptuously on the ground and pulled his seax from his belt.

  “My apologies, Lord,” he bowed ostentatiously to add weight to the sarcasm that laced his voice. “I had not realised he was your own little plaything. Or perhaps it is the pigs you prefer in the bedroom? Either way, you shall have neither without a fight, and I don’t rate your chances too highly as you are but one man and we are many.”

  Thurkill had not really expected them to give up easily, but he had a duty to his own people to avoid bloodshed if he could, so he ignored the crude taunt and offered them another chance, appealing to those who were less belligerent than this scar-faced bully.

  “You must know that you all stand outside of the law right now. You are lordless men with no standing and you should think about your position carefully. A man has been killed and I have a responsibility to his family to see the blood price paid by those who committed this heinous crime. Now I don’t doubt that not all of you were involved or even wanted this outcome, so if the killer or killers are handed over to me now for justice, I will see that the others are treated fairly at the next sitting of the lord’s court.

  “I urge you to think well on my offer for it will not be made again. Should you choose to reject it, I will have no mercy and you will only have yourselves to blame. I will give you time to consider your response.”

  Whether or not there were those who wished to accept his terms, Beorhtric gave them no choice. Doubtless he was one of those directly responsible for the death of the pig herder so, he had nothing to lose.

  “Fuck you and your justice. You must be as stupid as you look to have come here alone.”

  With that, he began to run towards the slope, yelling at the others to follow. But before he could reach Thurkill, two things happened in quick succession. First, Thurkill shouted “Now!” as he raised his shield ready to receive the bandit’s wild lunge. Second, almost twenty men sprang to their feet and stepped forward until they were level with their lord on the edge of the ridge. While Thurkill had been talking, they had slowly inched forward through the leaves until they were as close as they dared to be.

  The effect was mesmerising. A look of utter shock and bewilderment spread across the faces of hapless brigands. But they were too far committed now to stop. With a roar of frustration, they pressed home their attack. But it was a futile enterprise, doomed to failure, like a storm blowing against a stone wall. Though they gave it their all, the shieldwall stood firm. It did not even bend.

  Before they had a chance to gather themselves for a second surge, Thurkill gave the order. “Advance, slow walk.”

  Like the well drilled war-band they now were, the spearmen took a step forward, taking their lead from Urri on the left, keeping pace with him so that the impenetrable line of shields remained intact. Those in the second rank raised their spe
ars to shoulder level and began thrusting through the gaps between the heads of those in front. Straightaway men began to fall, screaming, blood gushing from fatal wounds to the neck or shoulder. It was an uneven fight from the beginning and the brigands never stood a chance. It was just a matter of how many would die before they surrendered. Already at least half a dozen men were down and the rest were starting to give way before the villagers’ inexorable march down the slope.

  Thurkill knew he had to bring matters to a swift conclusion. Agbert was safe for the moment but there was no telling what Beorhtric or any of his henchmen might do in their madness or panic. It would take but a moment to stab the lad where he lay. He had to either force them to surrender or kill them all. He could not risk losing the boy as well as his father in the space of a day.

  “Finish them!” He roared, swinging his deadly axe down hard on the head of the unfortunate man in front of him. The blade split the skull in two, splattering grey brain matter over all those nearby.

  That single act proved to be the tipping point. Distraught with grief, half threw down their weapons and sank to their knees, imploring their assailants to spare their lives. The other half, including Beorhtric, turned and fled, running headlong into Leofric and his warriors who now emerged from the trees at their rear. Those that put up a fight were cut down almost before they knew what had hit them, while the rest saw sense and gave up.

  There were too few villagers to block every route out of the hollow, however, and Thurkill saw two of the bandits were able to evade them and make good their escape to the south, running as if the very devil were on their heels. He resolved to let them go.

  For the rest, however – a mere eight of the original thirty – they were soon rounded up and made to sit in a small circle surrounded by a dozen hard-faced spearmen who left them in no doubt that any attempt to run would be met with a blade in the gut. It had been a short but bloody encounter. Twenty brigands lay dead or dying on the forest floor. They would do what they could for the wounded but most would die a slow agonising death from their horrific wounds.

  On the other side of the balance sheet, one of their own number had been killed, an older man who had been too slow to raise his shield in the face of Beorhtric’s attack. It irked Thurkill that the ringleader had managed to account for a second man from the village but, when all was said and done, the shieldwall had acquitted itself well on its first proper engagement. There were a few cuts and bruises that would mend with time and, here and there, one or two of the younger men had been violently sick when the battle ended, but none had disgraced themselves during the conflict. They had all fought with valour for the honour of the village. The blood price demanded by the death of Egferth had been met in full.

  TWENTY - THREE

  Agbert’s mother, Ella, was overjoyed to see her son safely returned, none the worse the wear for his ordeal but for a narrow gash to the head. Whilst she would mourn her husband’s death for some time to come, she at least could do so with her eldest son by her side. Every single one of the pigs had also been recovered and returned to their pens, though it had not been easy as they had scattered far and wide when the fighting started and had little inclination to be rounded up by those same men who now smelled of blood and fear. But at least Agbert had his full herd to care for now, as his father had done before him.

  As for the captives, Thurkill had them locked away with two armed guards stationed at the door. Within hours of their return to Gudmundcestre, their number had reduced to five as three of them succumbed to wounds inflicted during the fighting. Wulfric had done what he could for them, but to no avail. He had no difficulty overlooking the fact that they were thieves and outlaws, proclaiming “We are all God’s children. It is for Him to judge them when the time comes, not me.”

  Of the five remaining prisoners, Beorhtric still lived, having led his compatriots to their doom. Even now, he remained sullen and lacking in any remorse and it pained Thurkill for he knew what he must do, however distasteful he might find it. For the others, however, he had some sympathy. They had been led to this fate, rather than chosen it for themselves. Yes, they could have found a different path, but what option did they really have? It was the Normans who were the true architects of their downfall, having destroyed their homes and taken away their livelihoods. Who could honestly say they would have behaved differently in the same circumstances? What would have become of the people of Gudmundcestre had the Normans destroyed their village?

  With Aelfric still away in Normandy, it fell to him to decide what to do. But, with no knowledge in matters of law, he wasn’t comfortable acting on his own so he sent Eardwulf north to Huntendune to summon Alwig the Steward. With the older, more experienced man by his side, he knew he would feel more able to act with the authority invested in him by Aelfric. He had to be sure that everything that was to be done would be carried out in accordance with the laws of the land, and for this he needed Alwig’s guidance.

  The Steward arrived the next day, coming straight to lord’s hall where he was welcomed by Thurkill and Hild. “I am glad you called for me, Lord. From what I hear, a most heinous crime has been committed and justice must be seen to be done and done swiftly, so that a clear message may be sent to all others who would seek to live outside of the law.”

  “I agree, Alwig, but there is a minor complication here. We have five captives, only one of whom – I believe – was directly involved in the killing of the pig herder, Egferth. The others had no part in it.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I have spoken to them. I have seen the fear in their eyes, they know what fate awaits them and I have no reason to believe them liars. They tell me that six men only went to steal the pigs, four of whom died in the subsequent fight. Another was one of the two men who escaped us, and the last is Beorhtric, their leader, who is also our captive. The tracks we found by Egferth’s body bear witness to the truth of it.”

  “I see. And what of Egferth’s widow? Have you spoken to her? Has she let it be known what price she would see exacted for her husband’s murder?”

  “I confess I have not. I’ve left her in peace to mourn her husband ahead of the funeral which takes place later today.”

  “Perhaps wise, Lord Thurkill. Once he’s been laid to rest, then we can see to the business of justice. I suggest you summon the folkmoot for tomorrow. Let the landholders and best men of the village assemble to sit in judgement on these brigands. As lord of the village, you will preside over the hearing while I shall speak against the men on behalf of the widow, if she will have me. I will speak to her tonight.”

  Thurkill nodded in agreement, happy for Alwig to take charge of matters. With his help, he hoped to navigate a safe path through the thorny matter of dispensing justice for crimes committed.

  ***

  Egferth’s funeral was a sombre affair. The old man was well liked; as one of the elders of the village, he had been a member of the folkmoot as well. To help matters, Thurkill had paid for one of the recovered pigs to be slaughtered so that there would be meat aplenty for all to enjoy in the gathering that took place once the burial was over. He had paid well over the odds – perhaps ten times its value – to ensure that Ella had a little extra coin to tie her over while her sons took time to assume their father’s duties.

  As for Ella, herself, she did her best to present a brave face to her fellow villagers, but it was plain that she was in great pain. Her eyes were red rimmed from crying continually since the news was first broken to her. Although death was not uncommon, Thurkill mused, people could rationalise it, accept it even, when it happened as a result of age, sickness or childbirth. These things happened often and – though immeasurably sad of themselves – were not so rare that they warranted such an intensely emotional response. Egferth’s death, however, was senseless and callous. It should not have happened and was wholly unnecessary. They could have taken the pigs without killing him.

  They had been together for over twenty years and
had grown to love and care for each other greatly. Everywhere they went, they were always seen holding hands and smiling, sharing a few words or even a kiss as they went. It was no wonder that her husband’s murder had hit her so hard.

  Thurkill had little doubt in his mind how she would react when he went to talk to her at the end of the wake. Hild accompanied him, breaking away on arrival to hug Ella tightly to her chest. With tears in her eyes, she pressed the older woman’s head into her shoulder, telling her how sorry she was for her loss. The show of compassion brought forth a renewed bout of sobbing from the widow which she fought to bring under control. Thurkill was happy to stand back, waiting at a respectful distance for Ella to regain her composure; he had no wish to make matters worse if he could help it.

  “Forgive me, Lord, for the wound still runs deep.”

  “Worry not, Ella, for you have nothing for which to apologise. I know the pain you must be suffering and I thank God that you still have your three boys to care for you at this time.”

  “Thanks be to God and to you, Lord, for seeing my eldest safely home. To have lost both in one day would have been truly unbearable.”

  Thurkill guided her to sit at her table, taking the stool next to her in turn. “It is on the question of your loss that I must talk to you, though. Forgive me for raising this with you now, but you will have heard that I’ve summoned the folkmoot tomorrow to stand in judgement over those brigands that survive and are in our custody. As painful as it may be, Ella, I must ask you what recompense you would seek from those that inflicted this misery upon you? As wife to the murdered man it is your right to have a say in such matters.”

  Ella was silent for a moment, while she pondered the question. Thurkill did his best to hide his surprise for he had expected her not to hesitate to call for them all to die for what they had done. But, when she answered, it was clear that he’d misjudged her. Despite her grief and sense of loss, she had not lost any of her compassion.